The locker room was a cavernous space, smelling of sweat, bleach, and artificial turf. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered softly. I moved through the aisles, my sneakers completely silent on the rubber matting. Section A… Section B…
I stopped in front of Locker 17.
It wasn’t a standard locker. It was slightly larger, the door painted a different shade of navy blue. I reached out to pull the handle.
“Looking for something, dirt boy?”
I spun around. My blood ran cold.
Trent was standing at the end of the aisle. He had taken a shower, his hair still wet, wearing a clean designer hoodie. But his eyes were just as angry as before. Brad and Kyle stepped out from the adjacent row, effectively blocking my only exit.
“Trent,” I said, holding my hands up defensively. “I’m just doing my rounds. Cleaning up.”
“You don’t clean the varsity lockers,” Trent said, taking a slow step toward me. He cracked his knuckles. “I saw you leave Vance’s office. You look like a rat, Liam. What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” I said, backing up until my shoulder blades hit the cool metal of the lockers.
“Liar,” Brad sneered, stepping closer.
Trent stopped three feet away from me. “I don’t know what the hell fell out of that deaf idiot’s stick. But Vance called my dad. My dad is on his way here right now, furiously pissed off. So you’re going to tell me what kind of game you’re playing.”
I frowned, genuine confusion overriding my fear. “You don’t know what the key is for?”
Trent scoffed. “Why would I care about a janitor’s key? I care that Vance is breathing down my neck and my old man is driving up here to lecture me. I want to know why everyone is losing their minds over a piece of brass!”
Trent wasn’t lying. The confusion in his eyes was real. The bully genuinely had no idea what was going on.
My theory shattered instantly. If B-17 wasn’t Trent’s steroid stash, then what was it? And why would Vance call Trent’s father, the real estate tycoon, about a broken cane?
Before I could answer, a deep, booming voice echoed from the locker room entrance.
“Trenton!”
We all turned. Standing in the doorway was Arthur Sterling, Trent’s father. He was a broad-shouldered man in a heavy cashmere overcoat, radiating wealth and ruthless authority. He looked absolutely furious, but not at me.
“Dad,” Trent started, stepping away from me. “I can explain the—”
“Not a word,” Mr. Sterling snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. He didn’t even look at me or the other boys. “You stay here. Vance and I have matters to discuss.”
Sterling turned on his heel and marched toward the main administrative building.
Trent kicked a bench violently. He was so frustrated he forgot I was even there. Taking advantage of the distraction, I slipped past Brad and bolted out the side exit of the locker room.
I hit the cool night air, my lungs burning as I sucked in oxygen. The puzzle had completely changed shape. This wasn’t about high school football. This wasn’t about steroids.
A hidden key in a gardener’s cane. The Principal panicking. The richest man in town showing up in the middle of the night for an emergency meeting.
B-17 wasn’t a locker.
My mind flashed back to Vance screaming into his two-way radio. The sub-basement. The old archives.
I worked the grounds crew. I knew every inch of Oakridge. The sub-basement was a relic from the 1920s, a labyrinth of old boilers and forgotten filing cabinets. Three months ago, Vance had ordered a heavy steel security door installed in the basement’s north corridor. He claimed it was to protect historic school documents. He had given me and Joe strict orders never to clean that wing.
B-17 wasn’t a locker. It was a vault.