Chapter 441: Guilty’s Conscience

Snow was staring at Chloé, and Chloé, frozen mid-step, clutched her bag against her like a shield.

Nash, for his part, scratched the back of his neck. He told himself his morning was about to get really interesting.

He saw exactly what Snow was seeing. A girl with messy hair, not a trace of makeup on her face, eyes still puffy because she’d just woken up. Her face was completely red, probably because she was embarrassed at having been caught. And the worst part was the Blacklist jersey she was wearing: the fabric slipped over her hips and fell almost to her thighs, hinting at her legs. And right next to her stood Nash, the guy she’d spent the previous night idolizing.

Taken separately, all of that could be explained. But together? It told a story, and it clearly wasn’t the right one.

"You..." Snow started.

His voice was rusty; you could tell he’d spent hours yelling.

"Where were you?"

"Snow, listen, I can—"

"WHERE WERE YOU?"

Chloé flinched hard. Even Nash raised an eyebrow. Usually, Snow wasn’t the kind of guy to shout like that, and everyone on the sidewalk noticed. Two pedestrians even crossed the street to avoid trouble.

"I lost my bag," Chloé blurted out, way too fast. "There was the crowd, you were gone, I got lost, and then my phone died, and Nash found me, and..."

"Nash."

Snow didn’t take his eyes off Nash.

"Of course it’s Nash."

"We just—"

"Where did you spend the night?"

Chloé opened her mouth. And right there, knowing how honest this girl was, Nash knew she was about to ruin everything.

"At the hotel!"

Nash closed his eyes for a second. Here we are.

"A hotel," Snow repeated, very slowly.

Chloé realized her blunder a second too late.

"Not like that! We just slept together, I mean, not together together, we had two rooms—wait no, there was only one room, but it was like a suite with two rooms inside... nothing happened..."

The more she talked, the more Snow looked like a guy watching a car crash into a wall. Chloé was red up to her ears, waving her hands everywhere, her voice climbing into the high registers. She was trying to say she hadn’t done anything wrong, but every word dug the hole deeper.

Snow had never seen her like this. It showed on his face. The Chloé he knew didn’t stutter. She handled the stats, she scolded him when he skipped warm-ups. She didn’t blush over another clown.

Nash, meanwhile, was having a little debate in his head.

Technically, nothing happened. Technically... But...

He thought back to the room. To what they’d done without "really" doing it. The heat of their bodies, his hands wandering, their mouths seeking each other. He remembered the sweet smell of her skin, the feeling of her firm breasts against his chest, and how her ass had nestled against him. He’d had to force himself to stop, to say no so he wouldn’t go all the way. Okay, no penetration. But did that change anything?

Yes, Chloé. That counts as cheating. I know it, and so do you.

He thought it, but he didn’t say it.

He sighed, went down one step, then another, and placed himself between them, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Okay," he said. "I’ll keep it simple. She’s telling the truth."

Snow turned his head toward him like it was a cannon ready to fire.

"You, shut up."

"She lost her stuff last night. She was alone on the street, no phone, no money, in the Underground, at an hour when it’s not exactly a park for young women. I took her with me and put her in a hotel so she could sleep. Nothing happened."

"A hotel."

"A hotel."

"Because you thought to put her in a hotel."

"And you would’ve preferred I left her on the street?" Nash asked, tilting his head with curiosity. "Tell me, I’m curious. In your ideal scenario, what was she doing during that time?"

Snow’s jaw tightened. He took a step forward.

"A police station."

"Excuse me?"

"A police station," he repeated. "There are three within ten minutes of here. You take me for an idiot? If you really wanted to help her, you would’ve taken her there. Or called me. Or taken her to the Juggernauts’ center. Anything. Except what you did."

"A police station," Nash said, making a small gesture with his hand, like someone tasting an idea before rejecting it. "Where I spend the night on a plastic chair telling my life story to a cop who wants to know why a Blacklist player is hanging around with a Juggernauts girl at three in the morning. Then filling out paperwork. Then waiting. Then getting asked the same questions twice."

"You could’ve—"

"What I wanted," Nash cut in, shrugging, "was to sleep."

"What?"

"Sleep, Snow. It’s a very simple activity. You close your eyes, you stay lying down, you do nothing. I just came out of a match against a team people call the best, I was carbo’d out, man, that’s it. I didn’t feel like wasting my time playing fake gentleman or doing what’s ’right.’ I come out of a match, it’s almost midnight, and I wasn’t expecting to run into an angry Snow the next day. So I took the girl to a hotel to make sure I could sleep. I wasn’t about to cross half the city to the Spires at that hour for bullshit."

He’d said it with such naturalness, such casualness, that Snow stayed without reaction for a second. Then his gaze turned dangerous.

"You fucking with me?"

"What don’t you understand about ’I wanted to sleep’?"

He could’ve added a smile. He almost did. That almost was what tipped Snow over.

The big wing took a step forward, then a second. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing had turned ragged. Nash immediately caught the signal: things were about to heat up. He didn’t move an inch. For Rain he had a certain respect, a kind of weird loyalty, but for Snow? Zero.

If he tried to hit him, Nash was ready to give him the Jinzo’s treatment.

But suddenly, a small pink figure planted herself between the two men.

"Stop!" Chloé shouted.

She put her two small hands on Snow’s massive chest. Next to him she looked like a doll, tiny, but she managed to stop him dead.

"Stop, Snow. Please."

"Move," Snow growled.

"No!"

"Chloé..."

"No!" she said again, voice trembling but gaze determined. "He was great with me. He protected me all night. He could’ve taken advantage of me, done whatever he wanted, and he didn’t do anything. If I got to sleep warm and safe, it’s thanks to him, okay?"

She was shaking all over, but she didn’t lower her eyes.

"If you’re angry, I get it. I messed up. I got lost, I forgot to tell you, I made everyone panic... it’s my fault. So if you want to hit someone, hit me. But leave him alone."

Snow stared at her. A long, heavy silence settled, and it felt like the air was turning electric.

"Obviously," he finally said, stepping back a few paces. "You defend him."

"I’m not defending him, I’m just saying that—"

"Save it for when you’re not wearing your fucking lover’s jersey!"

With a sharp gesture, Snow hurled his phone with all his strength. The device flew straight toward Chloé’s face, but Nash was faster and caught the phone before it reached her.

Nash looked up and fixed Snow for a long moment. Then, with a fluid flick of the wrist, he sent the phone back along the exact same trajectory, in a straight line, right into its owner’s hand.

Snow caught it without even looking, as if he’d expected it.

They stayed there, face to face. Two guys sizing each other up on a sidewalk, under neon lights that buzzed and lit the scene.

Nash, without even trying, radiated enormous pressure. It was that thing his opponents felt right before getting crushed: a heavy, massive presence. Like a wild animal that had decided to stay calm, just out of politeness.

Snow felt it. He’d never admit it, but for the first time, the Panther had the impression of facing a bigger predator than himself. He instantly understood that Chloé hadn’t protected Nash from him... she’d protected him from an immediate arrest for disfiguring Snow.

Nash, for his part, didn’t look away. He no longer felt like smiling.

Deep down, he felt a mix of guilt and discomfort. He knew what it was like to see a girl you care about get "marked" by another guy. He also knew he had no valid excuse. He was the one who’d led her into that room. He was the one who’d given in first. He’d wanted to play, and he’d gotten caught in the game. So he stayed there, accepting Snow’s contemptuous stare.

However, Snow cracked first.

He spat on the ground between them, on the asphalt. He gave Chloé one last black look.

"Rain just has to pick up the leftovers."

And he turned on his heel without looking back.

Chloé stayed frozen, her face white with shock. Her eyes widened, wounded to the core. She looked at Nash, no longer knowing what to say, her heart pounding.

She took a step to follow him, but Nash grabbed her wrist.

"Not now," he said.

"But..." she tried.

"I said not now," he repeated in a lower voice.

She stared at him. Nash saw everything in her eyes: the anger, the fear, and that deeper thing, that consuming desire that had driven both of them crazy. Chloé watched Snow walk away, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatshirt, gradually disappearing into the flow of the crowd and the neon lights.

Seeing there was nothing left to do, she relaxed, her shoulders dropping from fatigue and stress.

They stayed there, planted on the last step, in a heavy silence. Around them, the Underground resumed its chaotic life: a taxi honked violently, you could hear people laughing in the distance. Nash felt a weight on his chest. He knew he’d messed up, even if he didn’t like admitting it.

"He’s right," he finally said.

Chloé turned her head toward him, surprised.

"Well, not on everything, he corrected with a grimace. But on the main thing, yeah. I made a mistake. Not necessarily about what happened between us, but about how it was perceived."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

"Whatever we tell Snow, we can’t prove we did nothing. And let’s be honest, between us, we both know we didn’t just "look at each other." Pretending otherwise would be straight-up hypocritical."

Chloé lowered her eyes. She looked at her sneakers, then at the bottom of her jersey that had ridden up, revealing her thighs.

"I’m sorry, Nash continued, trying to get serious again. This situation is my fault. I should’ve handled it better."

"It’s not—"

"Yes. Let me finish," he cut in.

She fell silent, docile.

"Snow needs time to cool down. I’ll try to talk to him, but not now. It wouldn’t do any good. You, on the other hand..."

He hesitated, looking at this girl who seemed so fragile and yet so unsettling.

"You really need to think about what you want. For your own good. You’re sweet, distracted, it’s your nature, I can see that. But you have people like Rain and Snow who care about you. Don’t end up alone with a guy like me at impossible hours. I’m not a good person, Chloé. Snow is right on that point. And you know it too."

Chloé bit her lower lip, keeping her head down.

"I’ll walk you back, he continued more softly. And I’ll try to clear things up with him, so..."

"No."

Nash stopped dead.

"No, wait."

She lifted her head sharply. Her eyes were red, her nose running a little from the emotion, but her gaze had changed. There was no longer that submission. There was a spark, a flash of anger he hadn’t seen before, neither in the gym nor in the hotel when they’d given in to their pleasures.

"What do you know about me, Nash?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"What do you think you’ve understood about me? Her voice rose in intensity. Tell me! What am I to you? A doll? A sweet girl? A little fragile thing that needs protecting? A nice analyst who doesn’t hurt anyone and blushes as soon as someone talks to her a bit loudly?"

Nash wanted to answer, but she didn’t give him any chance.

"Because that’s what everyone thinks! My family, my teachers, the team, Snow, even Rain! "Chloé is nice, Chloé is well-behaved, Chloé is cute, Chloé never makes waves." I’ve been coddled my whole life, and fuck, I can’t take it anymore! Nobody has ever asked me what I want!"

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away with an angry gesture.

"I’m Chloé, not a fucking role! I have the right to mess up, I have the right to get lost, I have the right to want things that aren’t on the program!"

She caught her breath, eyes shining.

"And Snow... You want to know what I don’t understand? If one of your girls disappeared for a whole night and came back with another man, would you accuse her?"

Nash had expected anything, but frankly, not that.

"Uh... What?" he stammered, completely caught off guard.

"Would you doubt her?!" Chloé shot back.

Nash sighed.

"Chloé, you need to understand that..."

"Answer." She didn’t want excuses, she wanted an answer.

He rubbed his face, a bit tired of the girl’s insistence.

"Listen, you’re wearing my jersey. And, I’m not gonna lie to you, I fully intended to start something between us," he admitted. "So I’m not really the best person to judge."

"That’s not my question!" She didn’t let him slip away—oh no, he wasn’t getting out of this. "I’m asking you: would you believe your women, yes or no?!"

Nash looked at her steadily. Then his gaze drifted toward the street, toward that filthy black sky pierced by the city’s garish neon. It was morning, but it felt like the night didn’t want to end. This quest was so unwelcome, on a day when he should’ve been celebrating a historic victory with his team.

He thought seriously, because it was an existential question for a guy like him.

Deep down, he told himself there was no way to know for certain.

Chloé lowered her head. She’d already understood the answer wouldn’t be the one she hoped for.

"Well... if you want my opinion... I think I’d trust them," he added.

She looked up, surprised.

"So I’d accept their version of the facts."

A silence settled. Nash felt Chloé’s gaze weighing on him, and there was something in the air, a tension that only wanted to be broken. He could see the kid was troubled, but he wasn’t much better, and what he had in mind right now was going to finish her off.

"Listen," Nash said, shifting to lean casually against the railing, "it’s simple. If we can’t prove something happened, we can’t judge as if it did. That’s the baseline. And that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be troubled, yeah. Obviously my trust would take a hit. I’m no saint, I know very well what people can do. I mean, look at me."

"..."

"But it takes more than a single act to say a crime was committed. You need proof, context, a history. You have to look at the person. My girls have never given me a reason to doubt them, so why would I believe they’d lie to me the day it happens?"

He shrugged, as if it was obvious.

"And besides, if another guy has to look after them in my place and that bothers me, it means I missed something. It was on me not to let that possibility happen. It would be my fault, not theirs. So yes, I’d believe them by default. And if something like that happened a second time, then I’d think there’s something fishy. But it would be the biggest hypocrisy of the century on my part."

A small half-smile appeared on his lips.

"There. End of the lecture. You want the version where I do some self-criticism to justify my selfishness?"

Chloé didn’t answer.

She was frozen. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on him. It was as if someone had just spoken to her in a language different from the four she mastered.

I’d believe them by default.

Nobody had ever told her that.

Not Snow. Not Rain. Not even her parents. She’d been protected, watched over, spoiled, scolded... but never trusted without proof. She’d always been treated like a kid incapable of anything.

A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. Nash grimaced, sure something like that was coming.

She lowered her head, took two awkward steps, and pressed her forehead against Nash’s chest.

"That’s... that’s it," she hiccuped, voice trembling. "I know I’m wrong... I know the Underground... I know what it looks like, coming back in the morning with a boy... but at least, at least, let me justify myself..."

"Chloé..."

"Give me the benefit of the doubt... I mean, I wish he’d give it to me." She sniffled, clinging to him. "Nobody ever asks me what I want. Nobody asks me what I like. Everyone decides for me. I’ve never been with anyone, you know. Never. I’ve always been the girl who... who waits."

Nash stayed there, motionless. He didn’t even know where to put his hands without seeming awkward or too rough.

"What’s with Rain," she stammered, "it’s... it was before. It was before that..."

She stopped, cheeks burning with shame. She searched for her words, almost found them, then lost them.

"Just... listen to me... why is it so hard..."

Nash blinked. He was completely lost. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. He almost wanted to use his system to scan Chloé’s Risk Factors. He’d have liked to see what was eating at her; it would’ve been super useful to know what he was getting into, especially after everything she’d just confessed.

But...

Nobody ever asks me what I want.

Chloé’s words looped in his head. He sighed and ignored his ability.

For now, he had in front of him a girl in tears, confused, exhausted, whose entire life had just flipped on a sidewalk. All he could do was act like a decent guy.

He closed his arms around her, holding her tight against his chest.

"It’s gonna be okay," he said. "It’s gonna be okay."

Chloé clung desperately to the fabric of his shirt, burying her face against him, and cried for a long moment. Nash stayed there, planted on the steps of the Hell Gates Arena, without moving, while the Underground crowd kept flowing around them, indifferent to their little drama.