Hailey's pov.

“Get her inside. Now. Hurry the fuck up.”

“No—please—stop—please—”

“Hey, man, get off. It’s my turn.”

“Damn, she’s so hot. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make this painless.”

The voices are wet and close, pressing against the inside of my skull like they’re still breathing on my neck.

I try to scream.

Nothing comes out.

My body is a locked door and I’m trapped on the wrong side of it.

Sleep paralysis again.

I’m awake. I know I’m awake. The ceiling of my shitty campus single is right there, the peeling paint shaped like a bruised lung against the cheap plastic glow-stars peeling at the corners.

But my arms, my legs, my tongue—everything is concrete. Only my eyes work, wide and burning, locked upward while my heart tries to punch its way out of my ribs.

I count. One. Two. Three. The way my therapist taught me before the sessions stopped working.

The panic doesn’t care about counting. It never has.

Two years. Two years of this exact nightmare wearing different masks but always the same ending.

Therapy put it on a leash for a while. Then the leash snapped and it came back hungrier.

My chest heaves in tiny, useless gasps. Air scrapes in. Air scrapes out.

The room tilts darker even though the desk lamp is on.

Shadows in the corners feel like they’re leaning closer, waiting for me to stop fighting so they can finish what those voices started.

I try to lift one finger. Just one. Nothing.

The fear is animal, pure and stupid and absolute. If I don’t break free right now, something is going to reach out of the dark and drag me under for good.

Somewhere outside my locked body the campus keeps living. Muffled horns from the street. Laughter too loud on the sidewalk three floors down.

The cheap wall clock ticking like it’s counting the seconds until I drown.

I force myself to listen to the ticking instead of the memory, but the memory doesn’t ask permission.

~~~~~~

Principal Mike’s office smelled like stale coffee and old leather. My prom dress was still on my body three days later because I couldn’t stand to take it off and look at what they’d done.

The fabric was torn.

My thighs were purple.

I could still feel the rope burns on my wrists every time I moved.

“Come on, Miss Nirvana. Don’t be so dramatic. They were only messing around.”

That calm, sarcastic tone he used when he was about to suspend some kid for weed. The same tone that used to make the whole school laugh.

“They tied me up. I was—” My voice cracked so hard the word broke in half. “I was violated.”

He stood up so fast his chair screeched. The slap came before I even saw his hand.

My head snapped sideways.

The floor rushed up. Cold tile against my bare knees.

The dress rode up and I yanked it down with shaking fingers, tears clouding my vision.

“It’s just a joke,” he said, standing over me. “Kids your age hook up all the time. Grow up and stop making a big deal out of nothing.”

"That's not fair! How...how can you say that sir?!"

The next thing I feel besides disgust for my own body is a book.

A heavy hardcover.

He brought it down on my shoulder, my back, the side of my head while I curled into myself and screamed for him to stop.

The nurse came.

They wheeled me out, pouring calamine lotion for the welts my continuous itching had caused.

No one asked about the rest.

I scratched until my nails split and blood painted the insides of my wrists.

It was the only thing that cut through the itching under my skin—the feeling that my body no longer belonged to me, that it was still being used even while I was alone.

Rain poured outside the nurse’s window like the sky itself was disgusted I existed.

I blacked out somewhere between the blood and the rain.

That’s how the memory always ends.

Heaven punishing me for being born a girl.

Hell taking pity long enough to let me pass out.

Tonight the paralysis lasts longer than usual. An eternity of staring at that water stain while my heart tries to kill me from the inside.

Then—one finger twitches.

Another.

I drag my fists up, force my body to sit, and suck in a breath so hard it burns.

The sun is already leaking through the cheap blinds, painting everything gold except the dark pocket around my bed.

My oversized jersey sticks to the cold sweat on my spine. My hands are still shaking. The phantom itch under my skin is already starting again, the one that never fully leaves.

I am Hailey Nirvana.

Certified campus journalist and all round good guy.

The girl every athlete at Easton U has learned to hate.

I say the words in my head like a reminder, like proof I still exist outside of that locked body and those voices.

Most mornings I wake up feeling hollowed out. Today is no different. The only difference is the phone buzzing face-down on the nightstand.

I grab it with fingers that still feel half-dead.

Notifications are stacked on top of each other, all the same headline from the university paper and half a dozen sports blogs:

Star hockey captain and pride of Easton U, Ezra Donatello, suspended indefinitely by the NHL pending full review.

For a second the words just sit there. Then something small and mean flickers in my chest — the first real feeling that isn’t pure dread since I opened my eyes. It isn’t joy. It isn’t triumph.

It’s just… quieter.

The panic has to share space with something else for once.

A small, vicious smile cuts across my mouth before I can stop it.

Yeah. I’m a sadist. Sue me.

Watching golden boys fall is the only thing that makes mornings bearable anymore.

Three weeks of digging through the injury reports of the rival captain before slamming it down on the perpetrator last night.

Booster money that bought silence after a freshman almost died. I wrote the piece. I published it.

And for a few seconds, while my heart is still slamming and my skin still remembers the rope, the knowledge that I took something from someone who thought he was untouchable is the only solid ground I have.

It should feel like winning.

It doesn’t.

But it’s the closest I get.

Three hard knocks rattle my door.

I freeze mid-scroll.

Another three. Louder.

I slide off the bed on legs that wobbles, cross the tiny room, and put my eye to the peephole.

The hallway light hits the sharp angle of his jaw first. Then the dark brows pulled low. Then the eyes—storm-gray and furious enough to burn through the wood.

Ezra Donatello does not look suspended.

He looks like he came here to finish something.

My heart, already wrecked from the nightmare, starts a whole new kind of panic.

The kind that knows the monster on the other side of the door is real this time.

I don’t open it.

I just stand there in my sweat-soaked jersey with the taste of old blood still ghosting across my tongue, staring at the boy whose future I just set on fire, and wait for him to knock again.

Chapter 2: The stuff I'm made of.

Ezra

“What the fuck am I seeing all over the internet about you, Don?”

Coach Hamburg storms into the locker room the second I pull my shirt over my head. The news has already spread like blood in water. One article. A few hours. And suddenly every sports blog, fan account, and campus page has decided I’m the villain of the year.

It’s hard enough balancing psych classes with being captain. Now this.

“Coach, calm down. It’s not—”

“Have you seen how many people are tearing you apart?” He grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. “I don’t allow that kind of shit on my ice. You know that.”

He shoves his tablet against my chest. I scroll. The comments are worse than I expected. Death threats mixed with people trying to defend me and getting ripped apart for it. I stare longer, confused.

“What the hell happened out there? Did you actually do it?”

I yank on my red varsity jacket and shove my jersey into the duffel on the bench. “I was blackout drunk that night with the guys. All I remember is leaving the rink after practice.”

I dig for anything else. Nothing comes. Just a blank stretch of time and the sick knowledge that something bad filled it.

I hand the tablet back. “Is this going to bury me?”

Coach answers by flinging a brown envelope at my face. I catch it before it hits the floor and tear it open.

Shit.

“The NHL is involved?”

“You put a player on the floor hard enough that he still isn’t cleared for practice. What did you think was going to happen?”

The letter blurs for a second. Official investigation. Timeline. Hearing date. My name printed at the top in case file. This isn’t going away quietly.

The door flies open before I can speak. My father walks in.

Coach tries first. “Mr. Donatello, if you would—”

Dad shoves him aside. The first slap lands on my left cheek. Then the right. Then the left again. A kick drives into my ribs and I hit the floor hard, curling around the pain. This is how Elijah Donatello corrects his son. It always has been.

“You had one job,” he snarls. “One fucking job, and you couldn’t even do that right.”

Coach tries to step in. Dad turns on him with the kind of stillness that empties a room.

Coach holds the stare for half a second, then glances at me with guilt. He mouths *be strong* and slips out, shutting the door behind him.

I stay down. The kicks always hurt more than I expect.

“Dad, I can explain—”

“You better start talking fast. If it’s not worth my time, you might as well order the casket yourself.”

He strips off his cufflinks, rolls his sleeves, and crouches in front of me.

I open my mouth. Blood runs warm over my tongue. “I was drunk. I don’t remember anything. But I know I didn’t do what they’re saying.”

Elijah Donatello only believes what he decides to believe. Looking at him now, I already know which version he’s chosen.

“Where’s the proof, Ezra?”

“I just told you. I was drunk.”

“Don’t.” He grabs my shirt and drives his fist into the locker beside my head. The metal rings. “You want to ruin everything we’ve built? Is that what this is?”

His eyes are wide, furious, but the sight doesn’t move me the way it used to. I’ve watched this performance too many times. There’s no point arguing once he’s decided I’m the problem.

He lets go and stands, smoothing the front of his jacket like we’re in a boardroom instead of a locker room that still smells of sweat. “You always talk about not wanting me to meddle. But how the hell am I supposed to stay out of it when you keep destroying everything?”

That’s my dad.

Former NHL defenseman. One minute he’s on the floor with you. The next he’s fixing his cuffs as if nothing happened. It took me seventeen years to understand the pattern. Now that I do, it will never work on me the same way again.

“How do you plan to fix this?” He hauls me to my feet.

I stand straight even though my face is throbbing and my lip is split. “I’ll handle it my way. So back off.”

I match his stare.

He lets out a short, cold laugh. “Handle it your way. Right.” He picks the letter up off the floor and holds it between two fingers. “You’ve got a hearing date, a suspended season, and your name on every platform from here to Vancouver. That’s what your way looks like so far.”

“Then let it look like that.” I take the letter from him. “It’s still mine.”

The calm cracks for half a second. His jaw tightens. “You’re one hell of a kid.”

He shoulders past me hard enough to knock me sideways and walks out.

The second the door shuts, I let my back hit the lockers and slide down an inch. Exhaustion hits all at once. My fists hang open at my sides.

“Why do you let him treat you like that?”

I look up. Quido Rivers is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. Our left defenseman. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

A tired sound escapes my throat. “I’m twenty-two and my dad still puts me on the floor. Real inspiring, right?”

Quido pushes off the wall and crosses to me. His eyes do that quiet worried thing that's always so obvious “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

He starts to sling an arm around my shoulders. I shrug it off before it lands.

“Don’t. Save the speech.”

He steps back, hands up. Knows better than to push when I’m like this.

I fold the letter once and shove it into my jacket pocket. The hearing date sits in the back of my mind but I don't tell him. That is if he doesn't already know about it.

Quido heads for the door, then stops and turns. “So what are you going to do?”

I grab my duffel and sling it over my shoulder. My face still burns. My ribs ache with every breath and somewhere out there a girl with a byline and zero fear decided my life was fair game.

I meet Quido’s eyes.

“I’m going to talk to the journalist who started this.”

I walk out before he can answer.

The campus air is cold enough to sting the split in my lip. I don’t feel it. All I can think about is the name that keeps appearing under every version of the article.

Hailey Nirvana.

She’s about to learn that destroying someone on paper is a lot easier than facing them when they show up at your door.

Chapter 3: Difficult to cut

Ezra

The ride back to campus is quiet in the worst way. Rain streaks the windows. The sky is already dark even though it’s barely evening. My ribs still ache from earlier, and the split in my lip pulls every time I breathe too deep.

I’m the captain. I’m supposed to say something.

“About the NHL,” I start, keeping my voice even. “I’ve got it handled. It’s not going to drag the rest of you down. So you can stop acting like I’m already dead.”

Silence.

Devon glances at me for half a second, then goes right back to the game on his laptop. His character stabs Isaac’s and he whoops like nothing else is happening.

“For fuck’s sake,” Isaac mutters, pausing the game. “I just got wrecked because of you, Cap.”

Kilian, who’s driving, tosses his own laptop toward the back. I catch it before it hits my foot. On the screen is a paused video.

I'm been so stressed for the last three hours white hair is already growing on my head.

“Heard about your little situation,” Kilian says, chewing gum. “That’s the girl who started all this, right? You ever seen her?”

Devon grabs the laptop before I can look. “Isn’t she the one from the campus station? Always dropping exposés on people.”

Isaac takes it next and passes it to Quido. Quido studies the screen, then lets out a low sound.

“Yeah. Hailey Nirvana. People call her the Hailstorm for a reason. She’s trouble. You’re unlucky she locked onto you.”

They finally hand the laptop over. I look at the photo for the first time and sigh tiredly.

She’s younger than I expected. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. The kind of face that doesn’t smile for cameras. There’s nothing soft about the way she looks at the lens.

I close the laptop.

“What the hell did I even do to someone I’ve never spoken to?”

Quido answers from the back. “She’s in the same psych lecture as you, Cap. How have you never noticed her?”

“Because I have other things on my mind,” I say. “Like not getting permanently suspended.”

Kilian glances at me in the rearview. “If you want her to take anything back or help clear your name, you’re going to have to talk to her. Charm her. Or at least not make her hate you more than she already does.”

Quido laughs once. “Good luck. That girl treats athletes like walking red flags.”

I rub a hand over my face. Girls like her are the hardest to move. You can see the wall from a mile away.

Kilian’s phone lights up. He types quickly, then smirks. “Jean and Joanne are free tonight. Want them to come by? Take your mind off things?”

Devon perks up immediately. “Tell them to bring friends.”

I don’t answer. The idea of noise and bodies and forced distraction sits wrong in my chest tonight.

Tomorrow I have to face the person who put my name on every sports site in the country since going over to her apartment earlier today didn't work.

I need a clear head, not another mess.

“Pass,” I say.

Kilian shrugs, but he doesn’t push.

---

It's morning already.

I get to the lecture hall early for the first time in my life and take a seat in the middle row, aisle side then plop my bag on the seat opposite.

The room fills the way I planned it—every other seat taken. When she walks in, the only open spot is the one beside me.

She sees it, her steps slow for half a second.

Up close she’s smaller than the photo suggested. Long black hair. Pink tank top. Jean skirt. She looks hot in a way that has nothing to do with early classes. When her eyes catch mine, her expression hardens instantly.

I offer a small nod. “Hey.”

She doesn’t answer. Just sits, pulls out her notebook, and starts arranging pens...like I’m not there.

Professor Sylvester, or Prof Sly as we call him, walks in a moment later and launches into the usual rules.

No talking. No exceptions.

His voice fades into the background as I watch the scowling granny from the corner of my eye. She’s rigid.

Every line of her body says she might commit murder if touched the wrong way.

I lean slightly closer. “Can we talk for a second?”

Nothing.

I reach out to tap the edge of her desk where her hand is resting an inch away, just enough to get her attention. Her hand jerks up so fast she knocks over the empty sports drink can I’d set near my notes.

The can hits the floor and rolls down the steps, each bounce louder than the last.

The entire lecture hall goes quiet.

Professor Sylvester’s smile is thin. “And who do I have to thank for the interruption?”

I’m about to raise my hand when she stands first.

“Miss Nirvana,” he says. “You know the policy. Wait outside until class is over.”

She starts gathering her things. I stand too.

“The can was mine,” I say. “I’m equally at fault.”

A few heads turn. Apparently no one expected me to own it.

Sylvester looks between us. “Then neither of you gets special treatment. Both of you—my office after class.”

Hailey walks out first. I follow, closing the door behind us.

The hallway is empty. She turns on me the second we’re alone, stepping in close enough that I have to tip my chin down to meet her eyes.

“What’s your deal?” she says, her voice low and sharp. “Don’t think I don’t see exactly what you’re doing.”

I blink. “So you can speak huh.”

Her eyes narrow. The air between us becomes charged.

I could try explaining. I could try apologizing.

Both would be a waste of time. Girls like her don’t move for soft words.

They move when the cost of saying no becomes higher than the cost of saying yes.

I hold her gaze and keep my voice even.

“I need you to take down your article about me. It's fake news.”

She stares at me like I just spoke another language. Then her hand comes up fast, stopping just short of my face.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” I don’t step back. “The investigation is already moving. That piece made me look like a monster. Do you have any idea what it’s costing me?”

Hailey lowers her hand and folds her arms.

“You should have thought about that before you did it. Consequences exist for a reason.”

I drag a hand down my face.

“I’m telling you the version that got published isn’t the full story.”

“Then prove it.”

My jaw tightens. This girl.

“Fine. Let's have a deal then.”

Her brows lift slightly. “What kind of deal?”

“You take the article down or at least stop feeding the investigation. In exchange, I’ll give you whatever you need. Access. Protection. Leverage. Fame. A guy. Name it. We both walk away with something.”

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it gets colder.

“You’re offering yourself up that easily?”

“I’m offering a way out for both of us.”

She lets out a short, disbelieving breath.

“You have some nerve.”

“You put my season, my future, and my name on the line with one piece,” I say roughly. “Nerve is the only thing I have left.”

For a moment neither of us speaks. The hallway feels smaller than it did ten seconds ago.

Then she takes one step back.

“You’re out of your mind.”

Maybe I am. But it’s still better than crawling back to my father for help.

“So is it a deal?”

Hailey scoffs under her breath and turns toward the main doors.

I follow, matching her pace until we’re outside. She stops abruptly. Her eyes lock on something across the courtyard.

I follow her gaze.

A group of guys from the lacrosse team are cutting through the path, loud and oblivious.

One of them laughs too hard and throws an arm around another’s neck. Hailey’s whole body goes still. Not annoyed. Not irritated.

Locked.

The dots connect faster than I expect.

So that’s the crack in the armor.

A smile tugs at my lips.

And for the first time since this nightmare started, I actually have something I can use.