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“No, I’m good.” I took a tense sip of water from my bottle.

“Sig, you look completely exhausted. And our group is up next,” Ram chided, adjusting his notes.

I let out a heavy exhale and stood up, needing a moment away from the stuffy room.

“Where are you going? We are about to start,” Ram panicked.

“Gonna get a Red Bull from the machine. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“In a minute?”

“Relax, I’ll be back,” I muttered, grabbing my suit jacket off the chair and heading out the door.

George

MY PHONE BUZZED IN my locker, a low, demanding rattle against the metal, that I ignored for all of three seconds before ripping the door open.

I was still sweating from practice, my knuckles raw from the turf, but my mind hadn't shifted focus once. I pulled up the campus schedule I’d memorized earlier. Pre-law presentations. Building Three. Room 204. He was there right now, playing the perfect, unbothered student in a sharp suit, acting like he hadn't completely disregarded my authority at dawn.

“Brooks, what the fuck was that out there?” Sam asked, stepping into my row.

“What was what?” I slammed my locker shut and threw a clean shirt over my head, not even bothering with a shower before grabbing my keys.

“It was practice, George! You almost sent Blaine to the hospital on that last drill.”

“Practice doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be ready,” I snapped, my voice low and tight. “If Blaine wasn’t, it’s not on me.”

“Of course it’s on you. You fucking knew he was a proxy.”

“He was wearing his gear, wasn’t he?”

“Shut up, Brooks! Don’t fucking justify your mistake!” Sam barked, and it was the first time I had ever seen him act like a true captain with me. “What’s wrong with you? Is it about Santiago? Did he pull another stunt? I thought you said you were taking care of it.”

“I am taking care of it,” I growled, stepping closer to him. “Santiago is never going to pull another stunt against me in his life. I am going to make sure of it.”

I turned toward the locker room exit, and my heart completely stopped.

“Fuck.”

Standing right by the doorway, holding a half-empty energy drink, was Santiago. Dressed in his impeccable, tailored suit, he was staring straight at me. His golden eyes were wide, flashing with a mixture of raw fury and a deep, blinding sense of betrayal. He had heard everything. He thought my dominance on the boat was just a tactical game to protect my football career.

“Sig,” I breathed, taking a step toward him.

He didn't let me explain. He turned on his heel, threw his can into the bin, and paced out of the athletic complex at a frantic sprint.

By the time I reached Building Three, the hallway outside the lecture halls was sterile, smelling of old carpet and nervous energy. I slipped through the back doors of Room 204, blending into the top row of the dimly lit, empty gallery seats just as the student defense team was called forward.

There he was.

Santiago stepped out from the preparation bench and took center stage in front of the mock jury box. He didn't look like the vulnerable, trembling submissive I had held against my chest last night. The raw, emotional hurt in his golden eyes had hardened into something lethal. The old hatred I thought we had buried on the boat had surfaced all over again, sharper than a razor.

Santiago began to pace slowly in front of the jury, his movements precise, calculated, and entirely detached.

“The defendant is a six-foot, 200-pound white male,” Santiago began, his voice dropping into a smooth, clinical baritone that echoed off the lecture hall walls. “The plaintiff is a petite, 90-pound female. I know the prosecution wants you to believe that this physical distinction alone makes my client guilty. But that is a stereotype, members of the jury, not the truth.”

Then, he stopped pacing. He turned his head slowly, locking his golden eyes directly onto mine at the back of the room with a terrifying stillness. He refused to break the connection.

“The law requires you to look at objective facts, not at the emotional fallout,” Santiago said, his stare burning right through my visor. “The plaintiff committed to a routine, intimate relationship with this man. The exact man she is now accusing of sexual assault.”