"Come on, man. You know how she is."

I'm done hearing this shit come out of his mouth. I lunge again, and then we're locked together, both trying to ward off the other's hits, while squeezing in a few of our own. I get a good one to his nose, and I feel it crunch under my fist. He pushes me away while he cups his nose with his hand. Blood coats his fingers.

Sirens wail in the distance, and I see the panicked look on Carter's face.

"I didn't do anything wrong, man. I swear she was awake."

"Bullshit. Then why was she passed out when I got there? Why hadn't she fixed her clothes? If you didn't do anything wrong, why'd you leave her there like that? Why'd you turn off the lights?"

He doesn't say anything, but I can see it all unraveling in his expression. The closer the sirens get, the more desperate he is. He stops talking with his mouth then, and switches to fists.

I swing a solid blow into his stomach, and he doubles over. But I underestimate his stamina, and he comes back fast, swinging. His fist plows into my jaw, and the world jerks out of focus for a few seconds. I stumble back. Carter tries to leave, and I hurl myself at his back, sending us both down to the concrete. I can't take him in a fight like this. He's too big. So I just concentrate on holding on. I take a punch to the ribs, but I don't fucking care. He's not leaving.

My head knocks hard against the concrete a few times, but I hold on, sneaking in a few hits of my own. And we're both bloody by the time two cops pull us apart.

My mouth is busted up and it stings when I speak, but I say, "He did it. The girl upstairs . . . it was him."

Then things go a little fuzzy, and I pass out.

ONCE WHEN I was sixteen, I got knocked unconscious in a game for a few seconds after a particularly hard tackle. I remember coming to on the field, feeling like I had done nothing more than blink, and I couldn't understand why there were so many coaches gathered around me.

This is not at all like that.

I feel like I've been out forever, long enough for my body to decay, and my mouth to dry out, and the whole world to move on around me, but when I open my eyes, it can't have been more than a few minutes because I'm propped up against a nearby car, and there's a cop and a paramedic kneeling next to me.

"His eyes are open."

Then, just like that time in high school, more faces appear above me.

McClain. Brookes. Torres.

And Dylan.

I try to stand, but the world goes sideways, and the paramedic claps a hand on my shoulder to hold me in place.

"Easy. I think you might have a concussion."

"I do," I answer. I've had a handful of those in my life, and this feels similar.

"Stella?" I ask.

"She's awake," Dylan answers. "There's a cop with her, too. And a paramedic. She . . ." She hesitates, then finishes, "She doesn't remember what happened."

"Carter?"

It's the cop who answers this time.

"Mr. Carter is seeing a paramedic, the same as you."

"Are you going to arrest him?"

The look the cop gives me makes me sick to my stomach. Or that could be the concussion.

"When both of you are cleared medically, we'll get your statements and go from there."

"He did it," I say.

"Did you see him do it?"

"I saw him come out of the room."

The cop just nods. "Okay then." He nods at the paramedic and says to me, "Let this guy get you cleaned up and checked out, and we'll talk about what you saw when he's done."

In all, it takes twenty minutes for the paramedic to clean me up. No stitches. Nothing broken. I have a mild concussion, but I decline the paramedic's offer to take me to the hospital.

My statement for the police takes even less time, and when it's over, I'm left with a sour taste in my mouth because no one mentions anything about arresting Carter. All I keep hearing is that Stella doesn't remember, and Dylan and I didn't see anything actually take place. I tell them what he said during our fight, about me not being able to prove anything, but they only nod and write it down. They don't say he was wrong. The cops promise it's all taken care of, but it doesn't feel that way to me, not in the slightest.

Chapter 30.

Silas I sit on the bed and hunch over my knees after my morning run. I didn't sleep well. Not last night or the night before. The bed dips, and I feel Dylan scoot up behind me and lay her cheek against my back. I'm sweaty, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"You're talking to Coach this morning?"

I nod.

"Everything is going to be fine, Silas."

I shrug. Because I don't know that.

All I know is Carter is still walking free. Stella's talking about it all like it's not a big deal, like she's fine. And I got in another fight with a teammate, the same day my last suspension for fighting ended.

She scoots closer, situating her thighs on the outside of mine, and presses herself against my back.

"Whatever happens . . . you're not in the wrong here."

I sigh and scrub my hands over my face.

"It's all just so fucked-up. I thought he was a friend. He was in my house. Near you. I should have beat the shit out of him that night with the weed. I knew I should have."

"If you'd fought him then, it's entirely possible you and I might not have slept together that night. Besides, that would have been overreacting. This wasn't."

I reach for the arm she has wrapped around my stomach and lace our fingers together. "What if nothing happens to him? How could I ever play on the same team as him?"

"There are options," she says. "We'll find a way to fight it."

"Not if the prosecutor doesn't take the case."

I'd spent all day yesterday researching the laws and past cases in Texas, and our chances don't look good. Dallas said too many of the partygoers mentioned seeing Stella making out with random guys. That coupled with the fact she can't remember anything, and they're calling her an unreliable witness. She's not the only one. I'm apparently unreliable, too. Everything Carter said in the fight is hearsay, and with my record and history, no one's putting much stock in what I say.

"Even then," Dylan answers. "We might not get anything done through the court system, but there are laws in place requiring universities to govern the safety of their students. Those have been used in the past to support victims of unprosecuted cases. Stella has options. And she has people who care about her enough to fight the uphill battle."

Except she doesn't even want to fight. I saw her yesterday, and she spent half the conversation trying to get me to talk about the next game, about how I felt about finally being able to play again.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that might not be the case. She just . . . it wasn't anything she said or did, but something in her face told me that she needed to talk about that game. Needed to know that life would keep on going. She's too much like me. She'd rather ignore it all, pretend it's not there until the last possible moment.

And because I understand how she works, I let her do it. For now anyway. But I won't let her be like me, won't let it all build up around her until she's trapped beneath it. She'll have to talk to someone eventually. Dallas. Ryan. Me. Someone.

Dylan kisses my shoulder, pulling me back to the present, and adds, "You've got people on your side, too, you know. Your coach cares about you. He's not going to write you off over something like this."

I turn my head and kiss her, soaking up a little of her certainty, and then I hop in the shower to get ready to head over to the school.

"COME IN," COACH'S voice calls through the closed door.

I open it slowly, and poke my head in.

"Silas. I've been expecting you. Come on in."

Shit. Here goes nothing.

I close the door behind me and cross to his desk. I take a seat in the chair on the left because the one on the right is where I was sitting when I first got suspended, and I'm really hoping this time turns out differently.

"I've heard a lot about what happened this weekend. Why don't you tell me your version."

I do, leaving out everything about Dylan, about the fact that I was pretty damn sure I loved that girl when we stumbled into that room, and now I'm certain. I stick to the facts, and even though it could get me in trouble, I mention the brownie incident, too. I try to remain stoic as I recount everything for him, but my hands are shaking.

Stella is a good person and a good friend, and if what Dylan has told me is true, she's been working for the last two weeks to get us back together. I should have noticed when I saw Dylan sitting at that table with my friends that Stella wasn't there. Someone should have watched out for her. We all should have.

And now that what's done is done, it shouldn't be so damn hard to get someone to do something about it. Life has already been unfair enough. Stella shouldn't have to live with that too.

"You feel certain that Jake did this?"

"I do," I say. "If you could have seen his face, seen how defensive he was . . . you would too. And even if he didn't set out to do it, even if she was awake when they went in the room, an innocent person would have handled things differently. He wouldn't have left her there like that. And I know fighting him probably wasn't the answer, and it's my third strike and you have every right to kick me off the team. I hope you won't, but I've got to say, I'd rather be off the team than play a single game alongside Jake. This team has heart and strength and courage, and he doesn't deserve to taint that."

Coach is quiet for a long while. He looks at me, then up at the ceiling. He scratches at his jaw and sighs, before turning his gaze somewhere else and repeating the whole process all over again. Finally, he stands and moves across the room to the window that looks out onto an open grassy area of campus where students play games or study when the weather's nice.

"You know, when I suspended you from the team, I told you I needed you to be a leader. I wasn't sure then if you had it in you. I knew you could play, knew you loved the game. But I couldn't tell if you only cared about your own future, or the team's as a whole. Even without hearing what you just said, I knew the answer before you ever opened that door. You know how?"

I shake my head, too many emotions lodged in my throat to speak.

"First thing Carson told me Saturday night after he explained what happened was that I couldn't suspend you again. He said the team needed you. Brookes and Torres showed up at my door the next morning saying the same thing. Keyon rang my doorbell last night in the middle of dinner. He busted into my house, interrupted my date, and told me that you deserved to play. And if that weren't enough, my daughter told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't support you, she wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the season. People love you, Silas. They respect you. They trust you, and I do, too. And I probably shouldn't say this, but I'm damn glad it was you that found Stella instead of someone else. Maybe fighting wasn't the best way to handle it, but I'm not sorry that's how it went. You shouldn't be, either. That girl . . ." He stops for a minute, closing his eyes and collecting his words. "I love Stella like she was my own. She brought my daughter out of her shell, and she's . . ." He trails off and looks out the window for a while. He doesn't say anything, but I can see him swallowing again and again, trying to keep his composure.

When he turns to me again, his expression is serious. "You're a good man, Silas. A good player. And I'm glad to have you on this team."

Goddamn it. I'm not going to get emotional in here. I'm not.

"I may not have any legal authority to address what happened this weekend, but I do have authority over my team. Jake is suspended indefinitely and pending a university investigation, will likely be dismissed from the team altogether. All I need is the athletic director's okay, and I promise you I'll get that. One way or another."

I grip the arms of my chair tightly and nod my head. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."

He comes around the table, and I stand to meet him when he holds out a hand. He shakes my hand, firm and quick, and it has all the softness of a cobra strike, but it's what nearly puts me over the edge.

I swallow hard, nod my head, thank him one more time, and then head for the door.

"Silas," he calls before I'm all the way out. "Williams told me about the playground. Pretty inventive idea."

I shrug. "I guess."

"I sure do hope this game works out for you, son. But if it doesn't, I think you could make a damn fine coach."

I close the door behind me with a quiet click, and I let the relief seep through my shoulders.

I swear to God, it's like the whole team decided to show up for early morning workout today. Torres and Brookes are pretending to watch game film in the lounge area right outside the office, and they pounce as soon as I'm out. Half a dozen more guys slink in from the locker room to hear me give them the news. Coach Oz and even Coach Gallt nod at me as they leave the office and head into the weight room.

It still doesn't quite feel real when I leave the athletic complex and head for my pickup so I can make my first class on the other side of campus. Then I see a familiar sleek gray number parked next to my rusty piece of junk, and Dylan climbs out of the driver's side.

The wind catches her hair, tossing it up in this golden column that catches the sun. She crosses to me quickly and huddles in close so that my body blocks some of the wind.

"So?"

"I'm still on the team. No suspension."

She squeals and throws her arms around my neck, and I lift her up off her feet so I can bury my face in the warm skin of her neck. Whatever tension was still left in me begins to melt away, and I could stay right here forever.

"I knew everything would be okay. I knew it."

"Carter is suspended, and if Coach has his way, he'll be cut soon."

She pulls back and smiles, running a hand along my cheek. "More good things."

I kiss her lightly and slowly lower her feet to the ground.

"Good things" doesn't even begin to cover it.

She grins up at me, slips out of my arms, and crosses to lean against my truck. She's wearing shorts and the same fall-off-your-shoulder shirt she wore the night we met. She gives me a wicked smile.

"What do you say to skipping our morning classes and going for a drive instead?"

"I say get your gorgeous ass in the truck and let's go."

I leave the windows down as we drive, so Dylan's hair blows across my chest and face as the wind sweeps through. But I don't mind because she's pressed tight against my side, my arm resting in the cradle of her thighs so I can switch gears.