Asher's POV
The word hangs in the air between us like a loaded gun.
Captain.
I stare at Chad, my phone still pressed to my ear, the truth crashing over me with the force of a tidal wave. It was him. All this time, it was him sending those messages, those threats, systematically trying to destroy my sanity piece by piece.
"It was you," I breathe, the words barely audible.
Chad tilts his head slightly, still holding his towel around his waist. "What was me?"
"The messages. The threats. All of it." My voice is getting stronger, anger cutting through the shock. "I know it was you."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." His expression doesn't change—still that same neutral confusion he's worn since the day he arrived. "What messages?"
"Don't." I step closer, my phone finally dropping to my side. "Don't lie to me. I just called that number. Your phone rang. You answered."
"So? People get wrong numbers all the time."
"For months?" My voice is rising, echoing off the tile walls. "Specific threats that mention details about my personal life? My captaincy? Things only someone on this team would know?"
Chad sets his phone back in his locker, moving with deliberate calm. "You think I've been sending you threatening texts? Why would I do that?"
"That's what I want to find out."
"Look, I get that you're paranoid about something, but…"
"Paranoid?" The word explodes out of me. "You've been fucking with my head for months! Making me think I'm losing my mind, making me suspect my own teammates."
"Making you suspect teammates?" Chad actually looks confused now. "What are you talking about?"
"The messages! The harassment! Someone's been sending me threats, and I just proved it was you!"
Chad stares at me like I've completely lost it. "Asher, I genuinely have no idea what messages you're talking about. I've never sent you anything."
The sincerity in his voice throws me off balance for a moment. He looks genuinely bewildered, not like someone who's been caught in an elaborate psychological warfare campaign.
But I heard his phone ring. I watched him answer my call.
"You're lying," I say, though some of my certainty wavers. "You have to be lying."
"Why would I lie? If I was harassing you, don't you think I'd be smarter about covering my tracks than leaving my phone where you could hear it ring?"
The logic hits me like a slap, but I'm too far gone to back down now. Too many sleepless nights, too much paranoia, too much rage that needs somewhere to go.
"Maybe you wanted to get caught. Maybe this is all part of some sick game."
"You're insane," Chad cuts me off, his own anger finally showing. "Completely paranoid and insane."
Something snaps inside my chest.
I lunge forward, grabbing Chad by the shoulders and slamming him back against the lockers. The metal doors rattle with the impact, and Chad's towel nearly comes loose.
"Stop fucking lying to me!" I roar, pinning him against the cold steel. "Just admit what you've been doing!"
"Get off me!" Chad tries to push back, but I've got forty pounds on him and months of pent-up rage fueling my strength. "You're completely out of your mind!"
"I know it was you! The timing, the knowledge, everything—"
"Hey! HEY!" Jackson's voice cuts through our struggle as strong hands grab my shoulders, pulling me back from Chad. "What the hell has gotten into your head?"
I shake Jackson off but don't advance on Chad again. My chest is heaving, adrenaline coursing through my system like electricity. Chad straightens his towel, his face flushed with anger and something that might be fear.
"He's lost it," Chad says to Jackson, not taking his eyes off me. "Completely fucking lost it."
"I haven't lost anything," I snap. "I finally figured out who's been terrorizing me."
Jackson looks between us, confused and concerned. "Terrorizing you? Ash, what are you talking about?"
I ignore him, keeping my focus on Chad. "Your phone. Give me your phone."
"What?"
"Give me your fucking phone. Right now."
Chad's jaw tightens. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. Give it to me or I'll personally ensure you never play for this team again."
For a moment, Chad just stares at me, his jaw working like he's chewing on words he wants to spit out. Then he reaches into his locker, grabs his phone, and hurls it at my chest.
"Choke on it," he snarls.
I catch the phone, immediately swiping to unlock it. "Passcode."
"This is insane."
"Passcode. Now."
Chad rattles off four digits, his voice dripping with contempt and disgust. I punch them in and immediately start scrolling through his messages.
My stomach begins to sink with each empty search.
Nothing. No unknown numbers in his recent calls. No threatening texts in his message history. No blocked contacts or deleted conversations that might indicate he's covering his tracks.
I scroll back further, checking calls from yesterday, from last week, from the past month. Looking for any trace of the number that's been tormenting me for months.
Still nothing.
"Well?" Chad demands, his voice sharp with anger. "Find your smoking gun?"
I keep searching, growing more confused and embarrassed by the second. The logic that seemed so iron-clad moments ago crumbles the longer I stare at his pristine message history.
If Chad's been sending these messages, where's the evidence? Where are the drafts, the call logs, any digital footprint that would prove my theory?
"Maybe you deleted everything," I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else.
"Or maybe," Chad says, his voice thick with sarcasm, "I'm not actually stalking you through anonymous text messages like some fucking psychopath."
Jackson steps closer, his voice gentle but insistent. "Asher, what's going on? This isn't like you at all."
With shaking fingers, I hand Chad's phone back to him. He snatches it from my grasp, his expression a mixture of anger and disgust that makes my stomach turn.
"Next time you want to rifle through my private property," Chad says, shoving the phone back in his locker, "should I have my underwear ready for you to rummage through?"
He grabs his gear and storms toward the exit, pausing only to shoot me a look of pure contempt.
"You need help, Carpenter. Serious fucking help."
The locker room door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the entire row of lockers.
Jackson's hand lands on my shoulder, warm and steadying. "Asher, talk to me. What the hell just happened here?"
The concern in his voice, the complete absence of judgment despite the fact that I just physically assaulted a teammate based on paranoid delusions—it breaks something loose in my chest.
The truth spills out before I can stop it.
"Someone's been sending me messages," I say, collapsing onto the bench. "Threatening ones. For months."
Jackson's eyebrows rise in what looks like genuine surprise. "Jesus, Ash. What kind of messages?"
I give him the abbreviated version—enough to convey the seriousness without sharing every humiliating detail. The threats. The intimate knowledge of my personal life. The psychological games designed to isolate me and make me paranoid.
"Fuck," Jackson breathes when I finish. "No wonder you've been on edge lately."
"I thought I'd figured it out when I heard Chad's phone ring. But..." I gesture helplessly toward the door. "Apparently I was wrong."
"Have you gone to the police? Team security?"
"I can't. If this gets out, becomes public..." I shake my head. "I just need to find out who's doing this and make it stop."
Jackson is quiet for a long moment, processing everything I've told him.
"I might be able to help," he says finally.
"How?"
"I know someone. Private investigator type. Very discreet. He specializes in this kind of thing—tracing numbers, finding digital stalkers. He could figure out who's behind this without anyone else having to know."
Hope flickers in my chest for the first time in weeks. "You'd do that for me?"
"Of course. We're teammates. Friends." Jackson's smile is warm, reassuring. "No one should have to deal with this kind of harassment alone."
"I don't know how to thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Let me make some calls first, see what I can set up." He stands, shouldering his gear bag. "And Ash? Next time something like this happens, come to me first. That's what friends are for."
After Jackson leaves, I sit alone in the empty locker room, feeling lighter than I have in months. Finally, someone knows. Finally, I have help.