The Trouble with You (Rixon Raiders 1)

“What’s up?” I asked, but he shook his head.

“Not now,” Jase said. “We have a practice to get through.”

That piqued my interest. Whatever he’d seen on Grady’s cell had him all worked up which meant whatever it was, it wasn’t good. And my gut told me there were only two things who could get to my best friend like that.

Lewis Thatcher.

And his step-sister.

Hailee

“We need to talk.” Flick was waiting for me outside English Lit, her expression grim.

“Okay…” My brows knitted.

“Not here.” She glanced up and down the hall. “Come on.” Her hand found mine, and we weaved our way through the stream of kids coming and going from class.

“Flick, hold up, what’s—”

“Raider traitor.” A shoulder slammed into mine, knocking me backward.

“Excuse me?” I spun around, glaring at the girl’s retreating form.

“Okay, we need to go, right now.” Flick grabbed my hand again and started yanking.

“Felicity Giles, will you just tell me what the hell is—”

“Thinks she’s too good for us, for the Raiders.” The words washed over me, my gaze landing on a group of girls over by the girls?

? bathroom door. They all burst into a fit of snickering when they noticed me watching them.

“What did you say?” I bristled, narrowing my eyes on their ringleader, but Flick didn’t let up as she kept pulling me toward the main doors.

“You’re a disgrace,” someone else sneered until I realized everyone was looking at me.

Every. Single. Person.

By the time we reached the main doors, I’d been called every insult possible—whore, slut, skank—and a few more I’d never even heard before. We spilled outside and I sucked in a ragged breath, my chest tight as I glanced back at the doors. “What the hell is happening right now?”

Flick chewed her thumb, her eyes refusing to meet mine. “Flick,” I urged. “What is going on?”

“Okay, don’t panic...” Her gaze finally lifted. “But Thatcher posted something on Snapchat and people have been sharing it.”

“He did?” I didn’t even have Snapchat.

She nodded. “It’s bad, Hails, really bad.”

“I see.” My voice was flat, my stomach churning. “Worse than the pep rally?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Show me,” I said.

“Hails, I’m not sure—”

“Show me.” Holding out my hand, I waited for her to give me her cell phone. She swiped the screen a couple times before handing it to me. A gasp slipped from my lips when my eyes landed on a photo of me. Except it wasn’t me at all. It was my face photoshopped—pretty convincingly—onto a girl’s body, and she was wearing an Eagles jersey, sucking provocatively on a popsicle.

“Ford’s sister sucks Eagles dick good.” My voice trailed off. “Where did that photo even come from?” Leaning closer, I got a better look. “Oh my god, is that one of my photos from the yearbook last year?” I remembered it now. I’d been in the art studio and Denny Marcus, the yearbook photographer, snapped me mid-laugh. “How the hell did they even get a hold of that?” I said, as if that was really the issue here.