Clean Hands

DMITRY POV 

The second I pull up to the townhouse, I already know what's waiting for me on the other side of that door.

Chaos. Loud, obnoxious, never-ending chaos.

Which, on any other night, I could probably stomach. But we just lost  again  and the only thing I want right now is the inside of my bedroom and the mercy of about ten uninterrupted hours of sleep. Instead I'm sitting in my car in the driveway, staring at the lit-up windows and psyching myself up to walk through a door I pay rent behind.

This is what I get for moving in with people who actually have social lives.

I grab my bag off the passenger seat and head inside.

The surround sound hits me before I even get the door fully open  something with bass heavy enough to rattle the walls, bleeding up from the basement. Rafael's doing, without a doubt. Our resident midfielder treats every night like it's his personal going-away party, even on a Tuesday, even after a loss. Especially after a loss, actually. Guy's got the emotional range of a golden retriever  nothing keeps him down for long.

Dax is in the kitchen with two of his basketball teammates when I pass through. I think their names are Dave and Enrique, but honestly, between the revolving door of athletes that cycle through this house on any given week, keeping track stopped being worth the energy a long time ago. I give them a chin lift and keep moving.

Novak's coming down the upstairs hallway with some girl I've never seen before tucked under his arm, the two of them heading in the direction of his room. I don't bother clocking her face. There's no point  Novak's rotation turns over faster than our line changes, and I stopped pretending to keep up months ago.

What I am paying attention to is Knox.

Because Knox and I need to talk.

I find him exactly where I figured I would  sprawled on the living room sectional like he owns the place, beer dangling from his fingers, surrounded by a cluster of girls I recognize immediately. Puck bunnies, all of them. The kind who show up to every home game in the student section and follow the team like a second shadow. The brunette currently draped across Knox's lap has made her way through damn near the entire roster this semester alone. I know this because she's tried to add me to that list twice now, and the fact that I'm gay has done absolutely nothing to discourage her.

She clocks me the second I step into the room. Her eyes travel the length of me in a way that makes my skin itch.

I ignore it and drop onto the opposite end of the sectional.

"There he is! Man of the hour!" Knox raises his beer in my direction like we're celebrating something.

I stare at him. "We lost."

"Details." He waves it off. "You played well. That's what matters."

I let that go, because it's not the conversation I came down here to have. I glance at the girls  all three of them watching with their ears practically perked  and then back at Knox.

"Can we talk? Just us."

His brow creases. "Why? They're not gonna say anything."

I resist the urge to laugh outright. The blonde on his left is already on her phone, and I'd bet my starting position that whatever she's typing has something to do with this exact room. Confidential isn't a concept that exists in her vocabulary.

"It's about practice," I say, keeping my voice level. "About Beckett."

"You mean about Beckett getting caught with Drowse in his system?" the blonde supplies helpfully, not even looking up from her screen.

I look at Knox.

He at least has the decency to look mildly sheepish. "It was going to be everywhere by morning anyway. You know how these things go  the league's been cracking down hard, and someone like Beckett?" He shakes his head. "They're going to make an example out of him."

He's not wrong. That's the worst part. Even if Caspian appeals, even if the retest comes back spotless, the story's already written. The headline exists now. That kind of thing leaves a mark that doesn't fully fade, no matter how clean you come out on the other side.

Knox leans back and resettles the brunette against his side. "Look, the way I see it? We wanted him gone, and now he's gone. However it happened, we should be using this time to rack up some wins, not standing around feeling sorry for the guy."

I nod slowly. And he's right  I know he's right. With Caspian out, the captaincy falls to me. This is what I've been working toward.

So why does the whole thing feel like a sweater with a loose thread I can't stop pulling at?

Because here's what I keep coming back to  I don't actually think Caspian did it.

I know, I know. On paper, Caspian Beckett is exactly the kind of guy you'd believe capable of cutting corners. Volatile, impulsive, allergic to authority. But there's a difference between reckless and stupid, and whatever else he is, Caspian is not stupid. He's also the most dedicated player I've ever shared ice with, even if I'd rather eat glass than say that to his face. The guy lives for this sport. Risking it all on a banned substance? For what — an edge he doesn't even need?

It doesn't track.

"We wanted him out." Knox's words circle back, snagging on something. I look at him again.

"What do you mean, we wanted him out?"

He shrugs, eyes drifting down to where he's toying with a strand of the brunette's hair.

The unease that's been sitting low in my gut since practice shifts into something sharper. Something with teeth.

"Knox." I keep my voice quiet. Controlled. "Did you do something?"

His eyes come up to mine. Steady. Unbothered. "I didn't do shit."

Except I have known Knox since we were fifteen years old, and I know exactly what his lying face looks like.

"Knox." Harder this time. "What did you do?"

"Relax." He sets the beer down and leans forward, forearms on his knees. "You're captain now. That's what matters. Keep your hands clean and let it play out."

Keep your hands clean.

The phrase lands like a stone dropping into still water, and I feel the ripple of it move all the way through me. Because that's not what an innocent person says. That's what someone says when they've already done something that requires distance.

I don't push further. I don't ask for details. The more he tells me, the deeper I'm buried in it and some part of me already knows that whatever he did, he did it for me. Which means the right thing to do is go straight to Coach first thing tomorrow and say something.

I know that.

I also know I'm not going to do it.

I stand up, mutter something vague, and head upstairs.

In my room, I drop my bag by the door and sit on the edge of the bed. The house noise filters up through the floor bass, laughter, the distant crack of a pool cue from the basement. My eyes drift across the room without any particular destination, and land, without meaning to, on the nightstand drawer.

I haven't opened it in months. No reason to. But I know what's in there  tucked in the back behind a phone charger and a packet of ibuprofen. The prescription bottle from last season. Vize, leftover from my collarbone injury. I'd been meaning to throw it out since October and kept forgetting.

I look away.

*Keep your hands clean.*

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, but sleep didn't come to me ,I couldn't sleep not after finding out what Knox did