Programmed the Quaterback Robot to Love のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

Riley POV The alley smells like beer, smoke, and desperation. It’s past midnight, the bar’s neon sign buzzing faintly above us. Tom stands beside me, jaw tight, eyes scanning the shadows like we’re in some bad spy movie. He hates meeting in places like this, but Gerald insisted on somewhere private, somewhere off the grid. A shadow detaches from the far end of the alley and walks toward us. Gerald. Same slouched shoulders, same eyes that dart everywhere but at you. He’s clutching a worn messenger bag like it’s worth its weight in gold. “About time,” Tom mutters. Gerald ignores him, stopping just close enough for the light to catch his face. “I have what you’ve been looking for.” Tom crosses his arms. “Your texts made it sound like you had the cure for cancer.” Gerald’s mouth twitches. “Not quite. But close. Let’s just say… if this gets out, then maybe your fly, Flynn Fetcher will be done for. Gone. Finished.” I step forward, letting the heels of my boots click agains

Kaya POV My heart’s still thundering when I leave Flynn on the rooftop. My feet pad down the stairs and times like this I wish I built those rocket sneakers when I was younger, then I would be there in seconds. The length to the lab is long, sweet drips down my back like a water fall. The hallway lights feel too bright, buzzing faintly above me as my sneakers pound the floor. I take the back stairwell two steps at a time, the cold metal railing biting into my palm. My breathing quickens, not just from the sprint but from the way my mind keeps replaying the camera feed, Gerald in my space, my files, his hand shoving something into my workstation. Of course Riley and Tom have something to do with this. Gerald would not just start poking into my work without something edging him Maybe the is is why they have been so confident, they Thought they would get something off sending Gerald to spy on me. Flynn’s going to be so confused by how I ran and left. I can already feel the

Kaya POV The first thing I see when I walk into the facility the next morning is Tom’s smug face. He’s leaning against the wall near the lockers, arms crossed, a look that says he’s been waiting for me. His phone is already in his hand, the screen tilted so I can see the headline in bold, black letters. FLYNN FETCHER: IS THE NEW HERO HIDING SOMETHING? Underneath it, a grainy photo of Flynn mid-game, helmet in one hand, sweat running down his jaw, eyes locked on something off-camera. The caption underneath, “A perfect face with a missing past”. “Good morning to you too,” I mutter, brushing past him. Tom pushes off the wall, following me like a shadow. “Told you,” he says, voice dripping satisfaction. “Perfection cracks. Every time.” I stop at my locker, open it slowly, pretending his voice is just background noise. “And yet you’re still obsessed with him.” His smirk sharpens. “I’m not obsessed. I just don’t like frauds. Or the women who defend them.” I slam my locker

Kaya POVThe knock at Flynn’s door still echoes in my ears as we head downstairs, the low hum of conversation from the other team mates rooms drifting through the hallway. My heart is still hammering, but I keep my face neutral, my steps even. Flynn walks just behind me, hands in his pockets, looking unbothered. Like nothing phases him. Like being caught in the middle of something the entire team will probably gossip about all night is just another part of his day. The coach’s meeting room is on the ground floor, right past the lobby. The door is propped open, voices spilling out into the corridor. When we push it open, every head turns at once. And, It is not even subtle. A few players glance at me, then at Flynn, then back again. Some try to hide their smirks, others don’t bother. I catch one of the rookies raising his eyebrows in that “called it” kind of way before someone elbows him. My grip tightens on the folder in my hand, but I keep walking toward an empty seat at the sid

Kaya POV The dinner ends with lingering chatter and the smell of grilled steak still clinging to my clothes. Most of the team filters toward the buses that will shuttle us back to the hotel, but Flynn lingers beside me as I pull on my jacket. “Walk with me,” he says, like it’s not a question. I glance at the buses idling across the street. “It’s late. And cold.” His mouth curves. “I run at five in the morning most days. I think we can survive a ten-minute walk.” Before I can come up with a reason to refuse, he’s already stepping toward the sidewalk. And because I’m apparently incapable of telling him no lately, I follow. The streets are quiet, just the hum of streetlamps and the occasional sound of distant traffic. My heels click against the pavement, his steps measured and easy beside me. We talk about nothing at first, the food, the way the rookie nearly fell out of his chair when Coach told him to slow down on the bread basket, how much better tonight was than some of the pa