Chapter 8

Easton

Debate practice is usually the one place I don’t lose control.

Usually.

The room smells like dry-erase markers and coffee breath, desks shoved into a crooked circle. Posters of old competitions line the walls—trophies in paper form. I’ve won three of them. Santiago has won four. Of course he has.

Mrs. Harlan isn’t here yet, which means chaos is simmering quietly.

I drop my bag next to the table and immediately regret it.

Because he’s there.

Santiago Acres, leaning back in his chair like the world owes him legroom, sleeves rolled up, diamond stud catching the fluorescent lights. He looks annoyingly awake. Victorious. Like chlorine and applause still cling to him.

I don’t look at him.

I sit.

“Hey,” he says, low. “You alive?”

Something in my chest twists hard.

“Don’t,” I warn.

He raises his hands mockingly. “Jesus. Just asking.”

Across the table, Maya Lin watches us with open concern. She’s got sharp almond eyes, jet-black hair in a neat low ponytail, glasses that make her look permanently unimpressed. She’s been captain since sophomore year and takes zero shit from anyone.

Next to her, Caleb Moore—tall, lanky, freckles everywhere, curls that never listen—leans over and whispers, “Place your bets. Five minutes.”

Behind them, Ari Patel adjusts his hoodie, dark eyes flicking between me and Santiago like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. He’s quiet, observant, and too smart to intervene.

Mrs. Harlan walks in, clapping once. “Alright. Regionals prep. Rivers and Acres—you’re leading.”

Of course we are.

We stand.

I don’t look at Santiago. I focus on the packet in my hands. Public funding for youth athletics. Easy. I’ve argued this a dozen times.

“We’ll start with economic sustainability,” I say flatly.

Santiago tilts his head. “That’s weak.”

I pause.

“Excuse me?”

“You go economics every time,” he says. “It’s predictable. Emotional appeal works better.”

Maya’s eyebrows lift slightly.

I feel heat crawl up my spine. “We’re not here to manipulate judges.”

“They’re humans,” he says. “That’s literally the point.”

“You just like hearing yourself talk.”

“And you like pretending feelings don’t exist.”

Something snaps.

I slam the packet onto the table so hard the pens jump.

“YOU DON’T GET TO TALK ABOUT FEELINGS,” I snap, voice echoing off the walls.

The room goes dead.

Santiago blinks. “Okay—”

“No,” I cut in, stepping forward. “You don’t get to waltz in here after winning everything and act like you understand this shit.”

Caleb whispers, “Oh fuck.”

Santiago straightens. “This isn’t about the debate.”

“Oh really?” I laugh, sharp and ugly. “Because last I checked, you’re suddenly the fastest swimmer, the track golden boy, the genius debater—must be nice.”

Maya stands. “Easton—”

“I TRAIN,” I shout, spinning on her. “I bleed for this. I don’t just show up and get handed medals because I fucking smile right.”

Santiago’s jaw tightens. “You think I don’t fucking work to?”

“I think you don’t care,” I fire back. “And it pisses me off that you still win.”

Silence.

Real silence. The kind that presses on your ears.

Ari looks genuinely shocked. Maya’s mouth is slightly open. Even Caleb’s stopped joking.

Santiago steps closer, voice low. “Say that again.”

“Why?” I snap. “So you can beat me at that too?”

Mrs. Harlan’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade. “Enough.”

I turn.

She’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognize me.

“Rivers,” she says slowly, “step outside. Now.”

My hands are shaking. I don’t remember when that started.

I grab my bag and storm out, the door slamming behind me so hard the frame rattles.

In the hallway, I pace like a caged animal, breath coming too fast, chest tight like I’m still underwater. My reflection in the trophy case looks wrong—eyes too bright, jaw clenched like I might crack a tooth.

The door opens.

Santiago steps out.

For a second, neither of us speaks.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he says finally.

I laugh, hollow. “Then stop acting like you’re untouchable.”

He exhales sharply. “You’re losing your shit.”

“Maybe,” I snap. “But at least I care.”

He looks at me then. Really looks. And something shifts in his expression—anger, sure, but something else underneath it.

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

I step closer. “Get out of my way.”

For a moment, I think he won’t.

Then he does.

I walk past him without looking back, heart hammering, head buzzing, knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:

I didn’t just snap at debate practice.

I crossed a line.

And Santiago Acres saw all of it.