Chapter 3 Three

I spent the entire night staring at a picture of two men who seemed to be hiding a terrible secret.

By eight the next morning, I had reached three conclusions.

First, someone was deliberately trying to turn me against Alex Anderson.

Second, Alex knew more about George Bennett's disappearance than he was willing to admit.

Third, I was going to regret accepting the campaign assignment.

Unfortunately, regret did not pay my bills, and neither did pride.

So, at eight fifty-five, I walked into the Westbridge Wolves training facility with my notebook, my camera, and the determination to treat Alex Anderson like a professional responsibility rather than the walking disaster he appeared to be.

The smell of fresh grass drifted through the open doors. Players moved across the field while coaches shouted instructions. I could hear the sharp whistle of the assistant coach and the thud of footballs hitting the ground.

I had barely taken three steps inside when a football rolled toward my feet.

I stopped it with my shoe.

"Nice save."

I looked up.

Alex stood several feet away, wearing his black training uniform. His hair was damp, and a towel hung around his neck. He looked annoyingly comfortable in his surroundings.

I picked up the ball and held it out.

"Try to keep your equipment on your side of the field."

He accepted it, his fingers brushing mine.

The contact lasted less than a second.

It was still long enough to irritate me.

"Good morning to you too," he said.

"Where is the coach?"

"Busy."

"The assistant coach?"

"Also busy."

"Someone who can explain the campaign schedule without wasting my time?"

He placed the football beneath one arm.

"You are looking at him."

I stared at him.

"You are not the entire football department."

"No, but I am the captain."

"Congratulations. Would you like a medal?"

"I would prefer an apology for the way you treated me yesterday."

I laughed.

"You told me someone was supposed to be dead, then refused to explain why. I think we are past apologies."

His expression changed.

For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me the truth.

Instead, he gestured toward the sideline.

"Come on. I will show you where we are filming."

I followed him because I had work to do, not because I wanted to be alone with him.

That distinction mattered.

At least, I kept telling myself it did.

We spent the next twenty minutes discussing the campaign. I asked questions about the team's training routine, the university's upcoming charity match, and the captain's responsibilities. Alex answered most of them with surprising patience.

He was still arrogant, but he was not careless with his answers. He knew his teammates' statistics, remembered the names of the younger players, and noticed when one of them struggled with a drill.

When a freshman missed a pass and stumbled, Alex jogged over to help him up.

"Do not let one mistake convince you that you do not belong here," he told the boy. "You made it onto this team for a reason. Now prove you deserve to stay."

I watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

I had expected a show-off.

I had not expected a captain who seemed to take his responsibility seriously.

Alex returned and caught me watching.

"Something interesting?"

"Your teammates seem to like you."

"They have excellent taste."

"There it is."

"What?"

"Arrogance."

He grinned.

"You would miss it if I stopped."

"I would celebrate."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Then why are you smiling?"

My smile disappeared immediately.

"I am not."

"Of course not."

I turned toward my notebook before he could see the heat creeping into my cheeks.

This was exactly why I needed distance from him. Alex could turn an ordinary conversation into something that felt uncomfortably personal, and I refused to become another girl who mistook his attention for affection.

Especially when he was Cathy's ex-boyfriend.

Especially when someone was sending me warnings about his past.

And especially when I could not stop thinking about the photograph.

"Alex," I said, keeping my eyes on my notes. "I have a question about the night George left."

The playful expression vanished from his face.

"Ask me something about football."

"That is not what I asked."

"And it is not what I am answering."

I closed my notebook.

"Why were you the last person seen with him?"

His jaw tightened.

"Who told you that?"

"No one has to tell me. I saw the photograph."

He went still.

For several seconds, the noise from the field seemed to grow distant.

Then he looked directly at me.

"You should not have that photograph."

"That is an interesting response."

"Where did you get it?"

"An unknown number sent it to me."

He swore under his breath.

I stepped closer.

"What was in the car, Alex?"

His eyes snapped to mine.

I knew immediately that I had touched something important.

Before he could answer, a coach called his name from across the field.

Alex did not look away from me.

"Do not ask that question again."

"Give me a reason not to."

His expression hardened.

"Because the answer will not change what happened."

"That is for me to decide."

He stared at me for another moment before walking away.

I watched him return to practice, my frustration growing with every step he took.

He could not keep ordering me to stop asking questions while refusing to tell me why those questions mattered.

I was not one of his teammates.

I was not one of the girls who fell silent when he frowned.

And I was certainly not going to let him decide what I was allowed to know.

By the time practice ended, my notes were complete, my patience was gone, and my stomach was reminding me that I had skipped breakfast.

I was packing my equipment when a voice called from behind me.

"Hey, Sabrina."

I turned to find one of Alex's teammates approaching. I recognized him from the team photographs I had studied the previous night.

Ryan, the team's starting wide receiver, was tall, broad-shouldered, and considerably less intimidating than his captain.

"Ryan, right?"

He smiled. "I am impressed. You already know my name."

"I have done my research."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you have a mysterious past and someone threatens to expose you."

His smile faltered.

I noticed.

Before I could ask why, he shook his head.

"Alex told me you might be around today."

"Did he also tell you that he is impossible to work with?"

"Several times."

I laughed despite myself.

Ryan leaned against the equipment table.

"For what it is worth, Alex is not as bad as people think."

"I did not ask for a character reference."

"No, but you look like someone who has already made up her mind."

"Have you ever considered that people might have good reasons for their opinions?"

"Every day. Usually after Alex gives me a reason to question mine."

That earned another reluctant laugh.

Ryan studied me for a moment.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask."

"Have you heard from George?"

The laughter died in my throat.

"Why would you ask me that?"

He looked toward the field.

"No reason."

"Ryan."

He hesitated.

Then he said, "Just be careful about what you believe. Both of them have their own version of what happened."

"Both of them?"

He looked back at me.

"Alex and George."

Before I could ask another question, he straightened and walked away.

I stood beside the equipment table, feeling as though everyone around me knew a story that I had been deliberately excluded from.

My phone vibrated.

For one hopeful second, I thought the unknown sender might finally provide an answer.

Instead, I received a message from Cathy.

Cathy: Please tell me you did not ask Alex about George again.

I frowned.

Me: Why?

The reply came almost immediately.

Cathy: Because some things should stay buried.

I stared at the screen.

Then I typed the question I had been avoiding since the first message arrived.

Me: Cathy, did George really die?

The typing indicator appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

My pulse quickened.

Finally, her answer arrived.

Cathy: I do not know.

I read the words twice.

Before I could respond, another message appeared.

Cathy: But if he contacts you, do not meet him alone.

A chill crept down my spine.

I was about to ask her what she meant when someone stepped beside me.

I looked up, expecting Alex.

It was not Alex.

A guy I did not recognize stood near the entrance, dressed in a dark jacket with his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked to be around our age, with dark hair and a tense expression.

His eyes settled on me.

"Sabrina Cole?"

I tightened my grip on my phone.

"Yes?"

He glanced toward the field, where Alex was speaking with his coach.

Then he looked back at me.

"I need to talk to you about George Bennett."

My heart began to pound.

"Who are you?"

He ignored the question.

"Did Alex tell you what happened the night George disappeared?"

"No."