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A few minutes passed. Then, the "typing" bubbles appeared. My heart thudded once, heavy as a stone against my ribs.
Sig: Happiness is a strong word, George. I’d call it... equilibrium. The world finally knows what I’ve always known.
George: Everyone thinks I hit you. You know I didn't. Why go that far?
I held my breath, the phone glowing in the dim locker room light. I needed him to brag. I needed him to feel so untouchable, so intoxicated by his own "creative" work, that he’d admit the audio was a stitch-up or that the parking lot was a calculated performance.
Sig: You seriously think I am that stupid?
George: What are you talking about?
The bubbles vanished. He didn't reply. He let the silence stretch, weaponizing the void between us. I knew him; he’d be staring at his screen, waiting for me to beg, waiting for me to shatter completely. He wanted to watch me crawl while giving away absolutely nothing.
I stood up and began to strip off my pads, letting them hit the floor with heavy, rhythmic thuds. I had a new mission now. I wasn't just a Left Tackle anymore, and I wasn't the kid living in Michael’s shadow.
I was the man who was going to let Santiago's own pride be the rope he used to hang himself. If he wasn’t going to confess in a chatroom, he was going to confess to my face, and this time, I’d be the one recording the script.
AS I WALKED OUT OF the athletic complex, the few remaining fans near the gates pulled back, their whispers following me like a cold draft. I didn't look at them. I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the glow of my phone.
I tapped a shortcut on my screen; a voice recorder app I’d pinned to the home page for easy access. My thumb hovered over the red button for a second before I shoved the device into my pocket.
I headed for my truck, my strides long and purposeful. I knew where Sig would be. On a night like this, after a performance that would have made an Oscar-winner weep, he wouldn't be hiding in his dorm. He’d be out, waiting for the digital news to break, ready to be the center of a sympathetic circle. He needed the validation of a crowd.
I climbed into the car and pulled a heavy black hoodie over my head, the dark fabric swallowing my frame. I drove to his building and killed the engine, sitting in the heavy silence of the truck as I watched the entrance. I was a shadow in the dark, waiting for the mirror to show its true face.
While I waited, my phone vibrated with a call from Dad. I sighed and let it go to voicemail. He’d heard the news; there was no doubt about that. He couldn’t buy my way out of this one, and I needed to fix the damage before I had to face him. He called again immediately. I disconnected the call, my jaw tightening.
Then, my eyes caught the moment I’d been waiting for.
The door to the building swung open, and Sig stepped out. To my surprise, he wasn’t dressed in his usual sharp style or a club shirt. He was wearing skinny black jeans and an oversized black hoodie. He paused, glancing around as if checking to see if anyone was watching, before pulling his hood up and heading in the opposite direction of the campus bars.
Since he was on foot, I ditched my truck and began to follow him from a distance, staying deep in the shadows.
“Where the fuck is he going?” I muttered to myself. The streets grew darker and lonelier as we left the campus lights behind. Sig turned into a narrow alley in the warehouse district, eventually stopping in front of an unmarked steel door.
“Who do you think you are?” a muffled voice asked from the other side of a small viewing slit.
“The Iron Rose,” Sig replied. The door buzzed, and he disappeared inside.
“What the fuck?” I bit my lip, my heart hammering. This wasn’t what I had expected. Sig was heading into an underground club that required a password for entry.
With my NFL dreams smeared across a Jumbotron and my dad’s missed calls sitting like a ticking time bomb in my inbox, I couldn't turn back. I had to know what was on the other side of that door.
I walked up to the gate, feeling like a massive target in the open air. The viewing slit slid open again.
“Who do you think you are?”
“The Iron Rose,” I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady.
The man on the other side chuckled, the sound distorted by the metal. “Gotta love a seven-foot bottom.” He winked at me through the slit before the heavy door groaned open.
My face flushed a deep, hot crimson, but I didn't stop to argue. I stepped through the threshold and into the dark.
Chapter Five
George
Inside the club, the air was thick with the scent of leather, cedar, and something sharper; the metallic tang of adrenaline. A man approached me with a tray, holding out a clip engraved with a delicate iron rose.
