3. Brooke

Istormed out of class, my cheeks burning and my heart racing with a mix of anger and disbelief. Professor Bradley, with that infuriatingly calm voice of his, had just called me out in front of everyone. And as if to add salt to the wound, he motioned for me to follow him to his office afterward. Reluctantly trailing behind him, I couldn"t help but brace myself for another round of condescension.

As we entered his office, I was struck, not for the first time, by the stark contrast it presented to the man himself. Bradley"s office was a cozy haven amidst the cold, imposing architecture of Crestwood Academy. Bookshelves lined one wall, overflowing with texts on history, strategy, and what I assumed were rare editions based on their leather-bound spines. The large oak desk that dominated the room was a mess of papers, books, and a vintage globe that seemed to have seen better days.

The soft, ambient light filtering through the draped windows cast gentle shadows, giving the space an almost ethereal glow. There was a personal touch in the form of various hockey memorabilia scattered around—a nod to his past life, perhaps, before he was forced to turn to academia. Photos of teams, signed pucks, and even a framed jersey adorned the spaces between books and paperwork, offering a glimpse into his passions outside of teaching.

Despite my frustration, I couldn"t ignore the warmth the office exuded, a stark contrast to the man who now sat across from me, his expression unreadable. The tension between us was palpable, yet this room, with its cluttered charm and personal artifacts, suggested layers to Professor Bradley that I hadn"t considered. It was as if the office was a different realm, where the rigid boundaries between professor and student blurred just slightly.

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and as I took a seat, I couldn"t shake the feeling of being caught in a game much larger than what had led me here. The warmth of the room did little to soothe my simmering anger, yet it made me reluctantly curious about the man who could create such a sanctuary amidst the chaos of Crestwood Academy when he never wanted to be a professor in the first place.

"What"s your problem?" Bradley"s voice cut through the tense air as he slid into his chair, a slight edge of impatience lacing his tone.

"What problem?" I shot back. His skepticism was palpable, his gaze piercing, as if he could peel back the layers of my facade to reveal the chaos I was desperately trying to conceal.

"Does this have anything to do with your dad?" he probed further, his question hitting me like a physical blow.

I stiffened, the mention of my father like a raw nerve exposed. "What do you know about my father?" I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

Bradley"s gaze lingered on me, heavy with unspoken knowledge. "Come on, Westwood," he said, a hint of exasperation seeping into his voice. "Everyone knows about his problems. Are you really telling me you have your head in the sand at this point? Surely you know better than that. It"s why you were pushing so hard for an auction at Pucks Plates, right? So you could hit a financial goal and cover his ass?"

"What do you know about it?" The question escaped me before I could reel it back, my curiosity piqued despite myself.

"A lot more than you think," he snipped back, leaning into his chair with a confidence that irked me. His demeanor suggested he held cards I wasn"t even aware were in play, a thought that both intrigued and infuriated me.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, trying to mask the tremor in my voice with defiance.

"You to get to class on time," he said simply, as if the weight of our conversation could be boiled down to such a trivial matter.

"I doubt I missed much," I retorted with a sneer.

The office suddenly felt suffocating, a cage rather than a sanctuary, as I sat there, trapped in an exchange that peeled back layers I"d fought hard to keep hidden.

Bradley leaned forward, his fingers interlaced on the surface of his cluttered desk, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I"ve been waiting for this moment," he declared, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "You know that, don"t you? I thought it was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my confusion mounting with each cryptic word.

"You know exactly what I"m talking about," he countered, his voice cold and steady. "You ruined me, Westwood. And now, I get to sit back and watch everything crumble. Your family"s legacy, your father"s pristine reputation, and you"ll be collateral."

There was that word again—collateral. Something inside of me snapped. The room felt too small, his words too pointed. "I"m more than collateral, you asshole," I spat, standing up so suddenly the chair screeched against the floor. "I"m going to figure out how to help my father whether or not you think I can."

For a brief second, confusion flashed across Bradley"s face, so fleeting I almost thought I"d imagined it. "I"m sure you will," he replied, the smirk returning as if it had never left. "You"ve always been good at getting what you want, even when people know they shouldn"t give it to you."

I froze, his words hitting too close to home. He was referring to something I"d hoped was buried in the past, a secret I"d kept closely guarded. His insinuation was a low blow, designed to unnerve me, to remind me of vulnerabilities I couldn"t afford to acknowledge. Not now, not when there was so much at stake. The memory of that time, nearly two years ago, threatened to surface, but I pushed it down with all the strength I had left. I couldn"t afford to be distracted, not when my family needed me the most. I wouldn"t give Bradley the satisfaction of seeing me affected by his words. This was a battle of wills, and I was determined to come out on top, no matter what ghosts from my past I had to face.

Bradley swept around his desk with a grace that belied the tension bristling in the air between us. He was close, too close, and every instinct told me to step back, to put distance between us, but my feet might as well have been cemented to the floor. I was a deer caught in headlights, transfixed by the stormy sea in his eyes.

"I thought I"d be the one to ruin you," he said, his voice low and menacing. "You especially. After everything you did?—"

"I didn"t—" My protest was feeble, cut off by his sharp interjection.

"It had to be you," Bradley hissed through clenched teeth, the controlled calmness now giving way to a raw edge of betrayal. "It had to be. Only you and I knew about it, and I sure as hell didn"t tell anyone."

"Your wife walked in on us," I snapped back, anger and a dose of fear causing my hands to tremble again. "Remember? Maybe she said something." My heart raced, the stakes of this conversation skyrocketing with every word exchanged.

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths. The mention of his wife, or rather, ex-wife, struck a chord, and I could tell by the clench of his jaw that I had hit a nerve.

"Oh, I"m sorry," I said, my voice dripping with insincerity, not sorry in the slightest. "Your ex-wife."

The muscle in Bradley"s jaw twitched, his pale blue eyes turning stormy with suppressed rage. There was a moment where the air between us crackled with unsaid things, with history and hurt, and a tangled mess of emotions.

I knew it was a low blow, a cheap shot, but I wasn"t about to take it back. Not now, not ever. This was the game Bradley had chosen to play, and if he thought he could use my past, my mistakes, against me, he was sorely mistaken. I refused to be anyone"s collateral, least of all his.

Without warning, Bradley leaned across his desk and grabbed my cheek, his grip firm yet surprisingly soft. His thumb swept across my bottom lip, a touch that sent a cascade of conflicting emotions through me. "You always had a mouth on you," he murmured, his voice a low hum that reverberated with an intensity I wished I could ignore. "One of these days, it"s going to get you into trouble." His lips curved up, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "And I"ll be right there, watching, munching on popcorn when it finally happens. Because you"ll be the one going down in flames. And I"ll be enjoying every last second of it."

I yanked myself from his grasp, glaring at him with all the fury and indignation I could muster. Tears filled my eyes, a betrayal of the emotions I was fighting so hard to suppress. I blinked them back fiercely, refusing to let him see any sign of weakness. There was no way in hell I was going to cry in front of him.

"You"re an asshole," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

"I know," he replied, a smirk playing at his lips. "Still the best you"ve ever had."

I wished for a witty retort, something to wipe that smug look off his face, but I found myself speechless. My face was burning, my heart racing, and suddenly, the office felt too small, too enclosed.

"Happy Divorce Day," I said instead, the words coming out more bitter than I intended. "Maybe I"ll send your wife some flowers."

I grabbed my book bag and headed for the door, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of his office and the complex web of emotions that seemed to trap me whenever I was near him.

"With what money?" Bradley called after me, his voice cold and mocking. "Your father lost it all."

I slammed the door behind me; the sound echoing through the hallway.