The Wrong Play: A Football Romance (The Wrong Player Series Book 2)
The Wrong Play: Chapter 32

Isat at my desk, fingers drumming against the wood, my eyes burning from staring at the screen for so long. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Riley was in class, and I had my app up, checking her location constantly to make sure she hadn’t gone anywhere.

It was probably going to take a minute for me to not feel the need to handcuff her for the rest of my life…but that couldn’t be helped. I’d be tracking her even in the bathroom from now on. Although I didn’t think that would be a problem for her.

Just like I’d predicted, when I got back, she was completely engrossed in her show, curled up in our bed like she hadn’t been handcuffed there against her will for the past couple of hours. The second she actually noticed me, though, she put on her best scowl—one that had all the bite of a pissed-off kitten who still wanted cuddles.

“You’re back,” she said flatly.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “What, no dramatic escape attempt? No using sheer willpower to chew through the headboard?”

She scoffed, huffing as she turned back to the TV. “I was formulating a plan.”

“Uh-huh.” I walked over and perched on the edge of the bed, glancing at the screen. “Looks like your plan involved getting emotionally invested in a fictional couple instead.”

Riley narrowed her eyes at me. “Shut up. You left me with nothing but this show and snacks. What was I supposed to do? Sit here and stew in betrayal?”

I tilted my head like I was considering. “That was an option.”

Her glare intensified, but again, kitten. More adorable than intimidating.

So, naturally, I climbed onto the bed and took full advantage of my adorable, pretend-angry girlfriend. And by took advantage, I meant I spent the next hour between her thighs, making damn sure she didn’t actually hate the cuffs as much as she claimed.

Which, for the record, she absolutely did not.

When she finally regained the ability to speak, her breathless little, “Okay, maybe keep them,” was all the confirmation I needed.

I grinned down at her, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “That’s my girl.”

I forced myself to stop reminiscing and concentrate on the fact that my computer was a mess of notes, tabs, and bullshit I had pulled together on Callum Fucking Dipshit—or whatever his real last name was. I was elbow-deep in the university’s faculty directory, sifting through an absurd amount of academic drivel when my bedroom door creaked open.

Matty strolled in, uninvited, might I add, balancing a paper plate stacked with corn dogs in one hand and a bottle of mustard in the other. His usual shit-eating grin was in place as he kicked the door shut behind him.

I glanced up, immediately setting my laptop aside with newfound respect.

“Matty,” I said, solemn as a funeral priest. “You are a man above men.”

He smirked, setting the plate down next to my laptop. “I know.” Then his eyes narrowed as he took in my face. “You good?”

I grabbed a corn dog and bit into it like it had personally wronged me. “I will be,” I muttered around the mouthful. “After Professor Westwood is disposed of.”

Matty sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “So, we’re committing murder now?”

I side-eyed him, chewing thoughtfully. “I had something else in mind, but I appreciate the commitment.” I pointed my corn dog at him. “You’ve just moved up in the best friendship rankings.”

Right then, Parker wandered into the room, also uninvited. “What rankings?” he asked suspiciously.

“These are still per se rankings,” I told him absently, reaching for the mustard bottle. “But I’m fine with you guys competing for ways to stay on top.”

Parker frowned. “I thought you said there wasn’t a ranking.”

“Yeah,” Matty added, nodding. “Pretty sure last time I asked, you said something about ‘friendship being a sacred, ranking-less bond’ and ‘don’t ask stupid questions, Matthew.’”

I waved them off. “That was last week. Things change.”

Parker crossed his arms. “Corn dogs were an unfair move. I’d like to file a complaint.”

I nodded sagely. “You could probably get me some milk to go with them—iceless, of course.”

Matty snorted and took an obnoxious bite of one of my corn dogs before pointing it at Parker. “Step it up, QB.”

Parker rolled his eyes but didn’t argue…and he didn’t leave the room for my milk.

Disappointing.

Instead, his gaze flicked toward my laptop screen. “So, what’s the plan?”

I leaned back in my chair, licking mustard off my thumb. “I’m currently trying to strategize,” I told them, nodding at all the files up on my screen. “There’s got to be something here. If he was doing all that shit to Riley…he’s got to have been doing that shit to someone else too.”

Parker dropped onto the armchair in the corner and stretched out like he was settling in for a show. I shot him a finger gun and picked up my phone. “Let’s see what Jagger has to say about this.”

Matty looked confused. “I don’t think a parking meter guy is going to be able to help you with this.”

Parker snorted, like he thought that Matty was being funny. He wasn’t. That’s just what I’d told Matty one day when I was annoyed with him.

I ignored both of them, scrolling to Jagger’s number. This was all based on speculation, of course. But if there was anyone who thrived on making people’s lives miserable in creative and legally questionable ways…if there was anyone that I knew most likely to be involved in shady shit…it was him.

I fired off a text:

Jagger’s response was almost instant.

I tapped my chin, considering.

I scoffed. That was such a mafia thing to say.

I sent Jagger the miniscule amount of docs I’d already found—some faculty emails, a suspiciously empty financial record, and a few complaints that had been conveniently buried. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start setting the stage. When I was finished, I looked up and realized Parker and Matty were still in the room…watching me. A little bit worshipfully looking if I cocked my head a certain way.

“It’s surprisingly easy to ruin someone’s life,” I mused.

Matty had been chewing another bite of my corn dog, and he swallowed theatrically. “Why are you saying that so threateningly?”

Parker didn’t look frightened at all, though, probably because he wasn’t eating my corn dog at the moment and had thus moved back into the number one position. I would tell him about his rise in rankings.

Later.

It was good to keep them on their toes.

Glancing down at my phone, I watched as the little typing bubbles popped up on Jagger’s end.

I grinned.

I smirked, shaking my head as I turned to my laptop and got back to work. I had a feeling that Callum had built his life on control—controlling his students, his reputation…Riley. He had spent years making sure people feared him more than they questioned him.

But fear only worked when you weren’t up against someone crazier.

Lucky for me, I had no moral compass when it came to protecting Riley.

I cracked my knuckles, rolling my shoulders as I leaned closer to the laptop screen, my fingers flying over the keyboard with sharp precision. The dim glow of the monitor was the only light in the room, casting jagged shadows against the walls as I worked.

I’d waited until Riley was asleep to get back to it, not wanting her to know what I was doing until it was done. Every so often, I glanced over at the bed and got the pick-me-up I needed to pull another all-nighter. Time was of the essence here, though. He’d sent her another email today, reminding her of their next “tutoring” appointment. He’d be coming after me any day now.

People were lazy as hell when it came to cybersecurity. Callum Westwood…sorry, Professor Callum Westwood…was no different.

Tonight, it had taken me only ten minutes to crack into the university’s database. Five minutes after that, I was scrolling through his login credentials. And at the fifteen-minute mark?

I was deep inside his inbox.

The guy didn’t even try to make his passwords complicated, probably some variation of a pet’s name, an old birthday, maybe even a pretentious Latin phrase. Hell, the first one I tried was FortunaFavetFortibus1 and boom—I was in.

Pathetic.

I clicked through the usual academic drivel—emails from faculty members about meetings, half-finished drafts of research proposals…an obnoxious amount of correspondence with the dean kissing ass over some upcoming funding.

Bingo.

A folder titled Research Proposals.

I frowned, clicking it open. It seemed harmless enough—Callum was a professor, after all, and reviewing proposals was part of the gig. But as I scrolled through the contents, a familiar, sick feeling started curling in my gut.

Half of these files? They weren’t research at all.

I spotted an email chain buried in the folder, the subject line Re: Follow-Up on Discussion.

I clicked.

The first few messages were clean, basic faculty-to-student conversations about research methodology and scheduling meetings. But then, as I kept scrolling?

The tone shifted.

Callum started getting too comfortable.

There were compliments—subtle at first. Your insight is always so refreshing. I wish more students were as mature as you. You have such a natural intelligence—so rare to replace these days.

Then, the timing of the emails got…odd. Messages sent past midnight. Responses riddled with overly familiar phrasing, unnecessary punctuation.

I narrowed my eyes, scrolling faster.

There it was.

A thread between Callum and one of his grad student assistants.

I sat up straighter, the air in my lungs coming out in a loud gasp.

The first few emails seemed normal enough—she had asked for clarification on a project she was assisting him with. He had responded.

But then…

Callum had offered her a better research position.

In exchange for…private meetings.

My hands clenched into fists.

The girl had refused, flat-out, without any hesitation. Her reply was clear and professional. She stated she wasn’t comfortable meeting outside of campus. She didn’t think it was appropriate. She thanked him for the opportunity, but she was not interested.

And Callum? He had responded by tanking her entire recommendation letter.

I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.

This was it. This was the kind of shit that could end him.

I copied everything. Screenshots, attachments, the whole fucking thread. But I wasn’t done. Not yet.

Because if I was going to take Callum out, I wasn’t going to do it halfway. Destroying the good professor’s career and reputation wasn’t just about exposing what he’d already done.

It was about making sure no one would ever doubt it.

I cracked my knuckles again and leaned forward, my focus razor-sharp as I pieced together something that looked airtight.

First, I adjusted the timestamps. Made it seem like the emails weren’t from years ago but were much more recent…like he had just tried to pull the same disgusting move with another student last week.

Next, I planted a fake complaint. A carefully crafted, anonymous email from a ‘former student,’ detailing inappropriate conduct, coercion, and academic tampering. I kept the language vague enough that it didn’t seem forced but specific enough that it would be undeniable.

Then came the paper trail.

With a few keystrokes, I linked his name to a dummy email account I’d created, one that ‘accidentally’ housed multiple attachments of inappropriate messages sent to ‘various students’ over the years. It wasn’t just about one case anymore—it was a pattern of misconduct.

People didn’t react to single scandals. They reacted to multiple scandals.

Callum was about to become a textbook example of a predator with a pattern.

I sat back, staring at the mess I’d created, my heart thudding hard in my chest.

Now, I just needed to drop the bomb.

I leaned back in my chair, rolling my shoulders as the email draft glowed on the screen in front of me. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, tension coiling in my chest. This wasn’t just about sending a message—it was about completely erasing Callum Westwood from the face of academia.

If the university thought they could bury this, if he thought he could get away with what he did to Riley—what he’d probably done to God knows how many others—they had another thing coming.

I cracked my knuckles and re-read the email one more time.

Subject: URGENT: Misconduct Allegations Against Professor Callum Westwood

To Whom It May Concern,

This is a formal complaint regarding Professor Callum Westwood’s ongoing misconduct involving multiple students.

Attached, you will replace documented evidence of inappropriate behavior, coercion, and academic tampering. Multiple individuals have been impacted, some of whom have remained silent out of fear of retaliation.

If the university does not take immediate action to investigate and remove him from his position, this information will be forwarded to major media outlets, alumni donors, and the state education board.

This is your opportunity to do the right thing—before the public forces your hand.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Party

I stared at the screen, my pulse thudding against my ribs.

The university would try to protect him, I knew that much. Institutions like these? They cared about reputation first, not justice. But the moment this thing reached public ears, they’d have no choice but to distance themselves.

That was the goal.

I hesitated for only a second.

Then, I clicked send.

But I wasn’t stopping there.

While that email was worming its way into the inboxes of every tight-lipped administrator on campus, I grabbed my phone to text Jagger.

Three dots appeared instantly.

I snorted.

I attached the files.

A few beats of silence. Then⁠—

A few minutes later, another text popped up.

I set my phone down on the nightstand, the screen still glowing with Jagger’s last text. The wheels were in motion now. Callum’s career, his reputation—everything he’d built—was already starting to crumble. And by the time Riley woke up, it would be in free fall.

I let out a slow breath, dragging my gaze to her.

She was curled up in the middle of the bed, completely wrapped in the blankets like some kind of sleep-drunk burrito, one arm stretched over my pillow. Her hair was a mess against the sheets, her lips slightly parted, breath soft and steady. Peaceful.

She actually looked like she felt safe, and I couldn’t wait for that to be her reality.

I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling before I climbed into bed beside her. The second my weight dipped the mattress, she stirred, her body instinctively gravitating toward mine like she knew I was supposed to be there.

My chest clenched.

“Everything okay?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she pressed closer, her fingers grazing my stomach.

I wrapped an arm around her, tugging her against me, my chin resting at the top of her head. “Everything’s great,” I murmured, kissing her hair, my lips brushing against the soft strands.

I couldn’t wait for her to replace out just how great.

I stood outside the admin building, hands in my pockets, watching as the doors swung open. The late afternoon sun hit just right, casting long shadows across the steps as two uniformed officers flanked Professor Callum Westwood, gripping his arms as they led him out in handcuffs.

Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.

Callum’s face was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, his carefully curated, upstanding-professor mask cracking under the weight of reality. His suit was rumpled, his usually slicked-back hair a little out of place, and there was something wild in his eyes—the look of a man who’d finally realized he wasn’t untouchable.

And then those eyes found me.

I smirked, tilting my head slightly as I slipped one hand from my pocket and lifted it in a lazy, two-fingered salute.

His jaw clenched, his whole body going rigid.

Fuck, this was satisfying.

I cocked a brow, letting the moment stretch between us, letting him sit with the fact that he wasn’t the one in control anymore. That he never had been. That his whole world was crumbling while I stood here, solid, smug, and victorious.

The officers muttered something to him, nudging him forward, but he didn’t move for a second—just stared, a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm brewing in his glare.

Poor guy. He really should’ve known better. I took out my phone and took a picture of him, for Jagger…and posterity’s sake.

His face only got angrier.

Finally, he was yanked forward, forced to stumble down the steps, the sound of his dress shoes scuffing against the pavement so much louder now that he was no longer the one calling the shots. His fury radiated off him in waves, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

I smiled wider, watching as they loaded him into the car.

Then I turned, slipping my hands back into my pockets, my work here done.

And Riley’s nightmare? Officially over.