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The air in the library stairwell smelled of dust and paper glue, too still for August. My palms were damp against the railing as I climbed higher, footsteps echoing too loudly. Noon sunlight slashed through the window panes, a hot white that felt more like judgment than warmth. I told myself over and over I shouldn’t have come, but curiosity had become a hunger I couldn’t deny. Baylen’s message sat like lead in my chest—about your brother. Nothing good ever started that way.

When I pushed open the heavy door to the roof, the brightness blinded me for a moment. Then his figure came into focus: Baylen, hunched against the low wall, knees drawn up, phone clutched like a lifeline. His hair stuck up as if he hadn’t bothered with a mirror, and his eyes were hidden by the shadow of his hood, but the tension in his shoulders was enough to make me pause.

“You came,” he said without looking up.

“You asked me to,” I answered, stepping closer, trying to sound braver than I felt.

Baylen let out a sharp laugh that held no humor. “Yeah, because apparently you’re the only one dumb enough—or maybe reckless enough—to look at the shit no one wants to touch.” He finally met my gaze. There was fear there, but also something harder. Resolve.

“Tell me,” I said.

He hesitated, glancing at the door as if it might swing open to reveal the whole team listening. “You saw my messages. Don’t pretend you didn’t. Brody looked like he’d swallowed a grenade when he grabbed his phone back. I knew then—you knew.”

I said nothing, because there was nothing to say. My silence was confession enough.

Baylen dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t care if you hate me for this. I don’t care if Ron hates me either. I just… I can’t keep quiet anymore. Because this isn’t just about me having a crush. This isn’t teenage shit. This is—” His voice broke. “This is about Coach.”

The name landed like a blade.

I felt my breath hitch, the memory of Madden’s message slicing across my mind: if ron finds out about baylen & coach… not good.

Baylen’s lips trembled before he forced the words out. “Last summer he cornered me after practice. Said he saw potential. Said he could make me first line if I—if I was willing to prove loyalty. At first I thought it was just drills, extra time on the ice. Then it wasn’t. It became…” His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence collapsing under its own weight. He didn’t need to finish. I understood too well.

My chest tightened, rage mixing with something colder, heavier—fear for him, for Ronald, for what it meant if this was real.

“He said it would ruin the team if anyone found out,” Baylen whispered. “Said Ronald wouldn’t understand. That it would be my fault if he quit, if everything fell apart.” He rubbed his sleeve across his face like he could erase the tears forming. “I was stupid enough to believe him. Until—until Ron kissed me once and I realized it wasn’t me who was wrong, it was Coach.”

I staggered back, the wind sharp against my cheeks. “Ron kissed you?”

Baylen flushed, shame burning across his skin. “It was nothing. A stupid, drunk moment at a party. He didn’t mean it. He laughed it off the next day. But it was enough to make me think… maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe Coach was the one twisting things.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the swirl of emotions inside me. Secrets stacked like cards in a collapsing tower. Ronald had his rival, his sister, his own teammate all orbiting him, and in the middle of it was a man who should never have been allowed near them.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

Baylen’s eyes searched mine, desperate. “Help me tell him. Please. He’ll listen to you before he listens to me. If Ron finds out from anyone else, he’ll blow up, and then Coach will bury us both. You know how much power he has here. Scholarships, scouts, careers. He can ruin everything.”

I shook my head, because the weight of it was suffocating. “You’re asking me to destroy my brother’s world.”

“I’m asking you to save him before it destroys itself,” Baylen shot back, his voice raw. “You think Brody’s the enemy? He’s not. The real danger is the man wearing a whistle and pretending it makes him a saint.”

The door behind us groaned suddenly, and both of us froze. When it slammed shut again, footsteps echoing down the stairs, Baylen sagged in relief. But my heart didn’t slow.

Because the sound of those footsteps was too familiar. Too heavy. Too purposeful.

Ronald.

I turned toward the ledge, half expecting to see him standing there already, but the space was empty. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling we weren’t alone anymore.

Baylen stood, fists clenched. “I’m not hiding anymore. If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself.”

“Baylen—”

But he was already moving toward the door, determination stiff in every line of his body.

I chased after him, panic rising. “Wait! At least let me talk to him first. Let me—”

He spun, eyes blazing. “No more waiting. No more secrets.” His chest heaved. “If he hates me for it, fine. But he deserves to know who’s been using us.”

The words sliced through me. Us. Not just him. All of them.

He shoved the door open and disappeared down the stairwell before I could stop him, leaving me alone on the roof, the sun too bright, the world tilting dangerously.

I pressed my back against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. Ronald’s text replayed in my mind, Brody’s kiss still burning on my lips, Baylen’s confession echoing louder with every second.

Everything was unraveling.

And somewhere, just out of sight, I swore I heard footsteps retreating into silence—like Ronald had already heard enough.