By Wednesday morning, half of Cedarfield thought Dylan Kingston and I had been secretly dating since summer, which was impressive considering we hadn't been anything at all until yesterday afternoon in a hallway with a flyer taped to the wall.

I found this out the way I found out most things at this school, which was badly and in public, when a sophomore I'd never spoken to in my life stopped me by the water fountain to ask if it was true we'd met at some lake house party neither of us had ever attended.

"Where did you even hear that?" I said.

"Everyone's saying it." She shrugged, entirely unbothered by the fact that she'd just invented a summer romance out of thin air. "Also that he got you a promise ring."

"There is no ring."

"That's not what Vanessa said."

I walked away before I could hear whatever Vanessa had allegedly said about a ring that did not exist, because apparently once you let one lie loose in a school like this, it grew a life of its own and started reproducing, spinning off details nobody had actually witnessed.

Dylan found me at my locker before first period, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who was, in theory, supposed to be as unsettled by all this as I was.

"You've heard," he said.

"I've heard several versions. Which one are we going with?"

"I like the lake house one. Very cinematic."

"I have never been to a lake house in my life."

"Details." He leaned against the locker next to mine, easy as anything, like we'd been doing this for months instead of one day. "For what it's worth, this is good. The louder it gets, the less room Steph has to argue with it."

"The louder it gets, the more people are going to ask me questions I don't have believable answers for."

"So we get our story straight." He said it simply, like it was obvious, and maybe it was, and I just hadn't caught up yet to how fast this whole thing was moving. "When did we start talking? What do you like about me? All of it. If we don't match, Steph will find the crack in about four seconds, and she'll use it against both of us."

He wasn't wrong. I hated that he wasn't wrong.

"Fine," I said. "Lunch. You, me, get our story straight."

"It's a date."

"It's a business meeting."

"Sure it is."

At lunch, he sat across from me instead of at his usual table, which caused a ripple through the cafeteria I could physically feel, dozens of heads turning at once like we'd triggered some kind of alarm system.

"Okay," he said, sliding his tray next to mine. "How'd we start talking?"

"You annoyed me in a hallway. That part's true, at least." I stole a fry back off his tray in retaliation for the earlier theft.

"Right, but we need a version where I'm charming instead of an obstacle."

"There isn't one."

He laughed, and it was different from the hallway laugh, quieter, meant for exactly one person instead of an audience, and I felt it land somewhere in my chest I didn't want it landing.

"Fine," he said. "You noticed me at a game. I noticed you noticing me. I made a move. You resisted for approximately five seconds before falling for my devastating charm."

"That's not what happened."

"It's close enough for Steph's purposes." He stole a fry off my tray without asking, which should have annoyed me and somehow didn't. "What do you like about me?"

"Nothing, currently."

"Come on. Give me something. If Steph corners you, you need at least one real-sounding answer."

I thought about it longer than I meant to, longer than the question probably deserved for something that was supposed to be fake.

"You're not what people think you are," I said finally, surprising myself with how true it came out. "Everyone thinks you're one thing. Hallways, girls, the whole performance. But there's something underneath that you don't show anyone, and I've caught it maybe twice now, and both times it didn't look like a performance at all."

Dylan went quiet in a way that didn't suit him, his usual easy expression slipping into something more careful, more real, and for a second I thought I'd said too much, handed him something I shouldn't have given away this cheaply, this early, over a lunch tray in a crowded cafeteria.

"That's a good answer," he said finally, voice lower than before. "Almost too good for fake."

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late."

Across the cafeteria, I caught Stephanie watching us, arms crossed, expression unreadable in a way that made the back of my neck prickle. She wasn't buying it, or she was buying it completely and hated every second of it, and either way felt equally dangerous, like watching a match get lit somewhere just out of reach.

That night Ryan found me on the porch, phone in hand, scrolling through something with a look on his face I recognized immediately, the same look he got before every hard conversation we'd ever had, the one that meant he'd already made up his mind about something before he opened his mouth.

"People are saying you're dating Dylan Kingston," he said, not looking up from his phone right away, like he was giving me one last chance to just say it wasn't true before things got complicated.

My stomach dropped straight through the floorboards.

"That's insane," I said, too fast, exactly the way Maddy had warned me never to answer if I actually wanted to be believed.

"That's what I told them." He looked up at me, and for one terrible second I thought he already knew everything, the deal, the kiss, all of it. "Because there's no way my sister would be that stupid. Right, Gin?"

I opened my mouth to answer him, and nothing came out at all.

I read Ryan’s text three times, and it didn’t get any better.

We need to talk. Now.

No question mark. No “hey.” My brother had never once texted me like that, and the fact that he’d chosen those words, right after storming out of the cafeteria, told me more than a long message could have.

“I’m coming with you,” Dylan said.

“No.”

“Ginny.”

“If you walk in with me, he’ll swing at you.” I locked my phone and held it against my chest because my hand had started to shake and I didn’t want him to see it.

“And then everyone will be talking about that instead.”

“Let him swing.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t hit back.”

He didn’t answer.

“Where is he?” I asked.

Dylan looked down the hallway toward the athletics wing. “Rink! He goes there when he’s angry. He’s been doing it since freshman year.”

I didn't know that. We've both lived in the same house our whole lives, and a teammate had to tell me where my brother went when he was upset. I filed it under things I’d be thinking about at two in the morning.

“Text me when you’re done,” Dylan said.

“Why?”

“Because someone has pictures of all of us, and I’d like to know you’re okay.”

He said it plainly, without the smile or the angle. That was harder to argue with than anything he’d said so far.

“Fine,” I said, and walked away before I could say anything else.

***

The rink was cold in a way the rest of campus never was, a sharp, clean cold that hit the back of my throat first. The overhead lights were off except for a single bank over the far boards, and the ice was scraped and gray after a long practice. Navy and silver banners hung from the rafters. One of them read CAPTAIN above a row of names. The last name on it was Dylan’s, from last season. After it, a blank space.

Ryan sat on the home bench with his skates still on and his stick across his knees, not moving. His helmet was beside him. His hair was flat with sweat.

“Hey,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “Close the door.”

I pulled it shut, and the sound echoed off the glass. I crossed the rubber matting slowly, then sat down a few feet away, not next to him.

“Coach posted the list this morning,” Ryan said.

“What list?”

“Captain and assistants for the season.” He turned the stick over in his hands. “I'm an alternate again, for the third year in a row.”

My stomach dropped because of his voice. It wasn't anger, it was flat, worn down, like he'd stopped expecting a different answer and was just tired of hearing the same one anyway.

“Ryan, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” He said it quietly. “I’m not telling you for sympathy.”

“Then why?”

“So you understand what I’m looking at when I see my sister holding hands with him.” Now he looked at me.

His eyes were red at the edges, and he hated that I could see it. “Every morning I wake up and try to be better than him. I put in the hours. I stay after. And he walks in, jokes around, and Coach hands him the C without him even trying.”

“That’s not my fault.”

"I know that." his jaw tightened. "I know. That's the

worst part. I know it's not yours, and it still feels like you picked the wrong side.”

“I didn’t pick a side.”

“Didn’t you?”

I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. I had planned answers on the walk over. Rehearsed them. They were gone.

Ryan set the stick on the floor. “Did you see this?” He pulled out his phone, thumbed it open, and held it toward me.

It was the photo of the kiss, the same one that had been taped to my locker, except this copy had come with a message from an unknown number.

It read, " Ask your sister what she’s really doing with him."

My mouth went dry.

“Someone sent me that an hour before lunch,” Ryan said. “I thought it was a joke. Then I walked into the cafeteria, and you were holding his hand.” He watched my face. “So I’m asking you now, and I want the real answer. Is this real?”

Everything in me wanted to tell him right then on that bench, with the rink lights humming over us, to say no, it's a deal, I'm sorry, I should have told you.

The words were right there.

But I thought about the cheer gym. Stephanie’s smile. The phone buzzing in my hand. If I told Ryan, he wouldn’t just be angry at Dylan. He’d go after him in front of the whole team, and Stephanie would have everything she needed.

“It’s real,” I said.

Ryan didn’t blink. “Say it again.”

“It’s real, Ryan.”

“Look at me when you say it.”

I looked at him and made my face do what it needed to do. "I like him. I didn't plan to, I didn't want to, but I do.”

It came out steadier than I expected, and that scared me more than the lie itself. Because the strange thing was that parts of it didn’t feel like lying at all.

Ryan stared at me for a long moment. Then his shoulders dropped, slowly, and I could tell he wasn’t sure he should let them.

“You know he’s never kept a girlfriend longer than a month,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Because he gets what he wants, and then he gets bored.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat to cover it. “I can’t watch that happen to you.”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t either.”

He almost smiled. It didn’t last. “When you were nine and fell off the garage roof, who carried you home?”

“You did.”

“Who told Dad it was his idea?”

“You did.”

“I’ve been in your corner since you were small, Ginny.

That doesn’t stop because you’re mad at me.” He picked up his helmet and turned it over. “If this goes bad, I won’t say I told you so. I’ll just be there. But I’m

still going to hate that it happened.”

My eyes stung. I blinked fast and looked at the ice instead.

“Thank you,” I said. “For not making this harder.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He stood, skates scraping the matting, and held out a hand to pull me up. “Come on.

I’ll walk you out.”

His hand was rough and warm, and holding it, I felt more like a liar than I ever had in front of the whole cafeteria.

We walked together through the empty hallway under the stands. Ryan talked a little about nothing: practice drills, a bus ride, a goalie who snored. I answered when I was supposed to. I laughed once, at the right moment. I was acting for my own brother, and he believed me, and I wasn’t sure which part was worse.

At the exit, he stopped with his hand on the bar. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“The text I got.” He looked at me. “Whoever sent it knows something. People don’t send things like that unless they think they’ve got something on you.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “If there’s anything you’re not telling me, now’s the time.”

I had never wanted to cry so badly in front of him. Instead, I shook my head.

“There’s nothing.”

He held my gaze a second longer. Then he nodded once. “I’m going back for my bag.”

He pushed the door open, held it for me, and let it close between us.

The afternoon light hit me hard after the dark of the rink. I stepped out and nearly walked into Dylan, who was leaning against the wall beside the door with his phone in his hand. He had clearly been standing there a while.

“I said I’d text you,” I said, my voice low.

“I know.” His face was pale. Nothing about it was easy.

“Ginny. We don’t have long.”

“What happened?”

He held out his phone. The screen was lit, an unknown

number at the top, a photo underneath.

It was a photo of us, taken from a distance and a little above, outside the student center on Thursday morning. Two people standing close, both serious, our hands caught mid-handshake.

Underneath it were two words: "Interesting handshake.”

“That could be anything,” I whispered. “A handshake.”

“Nobody sends that to me for a handshake.” Dylan’s voice was low and tight. “Somebody was there when we made the deal.”

Behind the door, I could hear Ryan’s skates scrape the matting. In a minute, he’d be walking out.