Chapter 6 Chapter 6
Amber
The hallway was a ghost town. My back slid down the cool stone of the wall until I sat on the floor, my knees trembling slightly.
Nat dropped beside me, snatching up my cracked phone from where Prisca had tossed it. Her hands moved swiftly, cutting through the air between us.
What the actual hell just happened? Ryker Wilder? Defending you? Am I hallucinating?
I signed back, my fingers moving with sharp, frustrated snaps. He’s playing mind games. He wants me to drop my guard so he can humiliate the Mavericks later. He’s a psycho
Nat raised an eyebrow, signing lazily. Idk Amber. He looked ready to murder Prisca. The whole school saw it
I don’t care, I signaled back, my jaw locked.
Before Nat could reply, a tall shadow fell over us.
I looked up. Ryker was still standing there. He hadn’t followed Prisca down the hall. Instead, his gaze fell down to me, his jaw tightening as his eyes scanned over my face and shoulders.
Before I could process what he was doing, he stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup my chin. His fingers were warm, tilting my face side to side as his eyes searched every inch of my skin.
I froze, completely caught off guard.
I swatted his hand away and scrambled back against the wall, signing a fast question with one hand. What are you doing?
Ryker’s expression hardened back into indifference. His lips moved deliberately so I could read every word. "The director needs us at the media studio right now. We can't use a picture of a bruised face on the school's official board, so I was just checking to make sure that blonde idiot didn't leave a mark."
My brows furrowed. A bruised face? That’s what he was looking for? He wasn't defending me out of kindness, he was worried about the campaign photos?
Before I could fire back an angry sign, Ryker turned his back and looked over his shoulder.
"You're already late," he said, his lips forming the words flatly. "The director sent me to find you. Don't waste my time."
He walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing down the corridor.
I stared after him, chest heaving. Nat tapped me just then, her hands moving calmly.
Should I go report Prisca for bullying? Nat signed, her expression tightening with protective anger.
I shook my head, signing No with a firm slice of my hand. There’s no need. I don’t want to draw more trouble to the Mavericks. Let’s just get this over with.
I stood up, brushing off my jeans, and signaled to Nat that I’d meet her later. Taking a breath, I turned and walked toward the campus media building.
The sterile campus media room was blindingly bright, filled with white backdrop screens and lighting umbrellas. A stressed-looking faculty photographer was frantically gesturing and adjusting his camera lens.
Ryker was already standing by the backdrop, arms crossed, wearing a tight expression.
The photographer spun around, clapping his hands together to get our attention, mouthing exaggeratedly, Ah, the co-captains! Perfect. Let’s move, get over here, put on the campaign track jackets, and let's get some shots!
A staff member pointed me toward a rack of clothes designated for the shoot. I walked over, thumbing through the hangers, and my stomach immediately dropped.
Prisca and Ryker had been the faces of Belgrave sports all season. Naturally, every single track jacket and uniform piece hanging on that rack was cut strictly to Prisca’s proportions—tall, stick-thin, and zero curves.
I pulled out a medium jacket and held it up against myself, grimacing. Even the large looked like it was designed for a prepubescent boy. I wasn't rail-thin like the Elite cheerleaders; I had hips, thighs, and a thick build.
Ugh, I groaned internally, staring at the microscopic sizing tags. There was no way in hell any of this was going to zip over my chest and shoulders.
As I stood there scowling at the rack, one of the production assistants noticed my hesitation. She walked over, giving me an apologetic look, and pointed to a separate, larger garment bag tucked away on a lower shelf near the corner. Her lips formed the words.
Check in there. The athletic department dropped off a supplementary batch of custom sizes this morning.
I crouched down, unzipping the bag, and found a jacket tailored with a bit more give in the shoulders and waist. Pulling it out, I ducked into a small changing partition to swap out my clothes.
Slipping my arms into the fabric, I realized it fit much better, though it was still a bit snug. When I tried to zip it up, however, the metal teeth caught midway up my spine.
I pulled at it. Nothing.
I twisted around, trying to force the zipper together, but the fabric bunched up awkwardly across my back. I let out a sharp hiss of frustration.
I peaked to see if I'd find the person who helped me locate the clothes minutes ago, but the place was empty.
I let out a frustrated breath, what am I going to do?
I feel the curtain move behind me just then, Ryker stepped halfway into the small space.
He looked at my back, saw the jammed zipper, and reached out.
Get out, I signed sharply over my shoulder, turning to push him away.
"Stop moving," his lips muttered flatly. He didn't step back; he just reached around and caught the stuck fabric of the jacket.
His fingers brushed against my spine as he pulled the zipper up. It caught for a second, then slid smoothly into place.
I pulled away instantly, turning to face him with a glare.
Ryker dropped his hand, his expression tightening into an annoyed scowl. He didn't say anything else, just turned on his heel, pushed the curtain aside, and walked out.
I stood there for a second, catching my breath. Dear goddess, working with this guy is going to be a real headache.
