“Good morning, Lieutenant Commander,” I say quietly while I fight an eye roll that threatens to send my eyeballs to the other side of the room.
“Good morning. Is this seat taken?” she asks us.
“No, ma’am,” Noah says. “Please join us.”
“Thank you.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, the easy banter between me and Noah completely gone now that she’s here.
After finishing her grits and downing half her orange juice, she looks at me and says, “How were the rest of your classes yesterday?”
“Fine,” I answer quietly, and then stuff the last of my bacon into my mouth.
“I was impressed by how easily you solved that volume-of-a-frustum problem in calculus.”
My chewing slows, then stops. That’s the first nice thing she’s said to me. It’s the first nice thing anyone has said to me here.
“We haven’t even gotten to that yet. I think Captain Martin was testing you.”
I swallow, then look at her. She smiles, the first I’ve seen from her, before taking a bite of toast. The smile didn’t last for more than a fraction of a second, but damn if it didn’t mess with the image of her I’ve already cemented into my brain: stick-up-the-ass, man-hating, wouldn’t-know-a-good-time-if-it-smacked-her-in-the-face Lieutenant Commander Durant.
She reaches down to her bag on the floor and pulls out a small notebook. “I developed a workout schedule for you over the next month and already got it approved,” she says, handing it to me. “Since I can’t supervise you during athletic time, I’ll be trusting you to complete these exercises on your own. If I find out you’re slacking, there will be consequences.”
And there’s the Paige I expect. I give her a tight-lipped smile when all I want to do is flip her off.
Noah whispers, “Sorry, man.”
I take the notebook from her and scan through the pages. Three-mile run today followed by three sets of fifteen push-ups and four sets of ten pull-ups. Plus about five different kinds of squats and walking lunges. I don’t even know what those are.
“Am I supposed to know what all this sh—crap is?”
“Sh—crap? Is that how normal teens talk these days?”
“I assumed you’d give me two laps for saying ‘shit.’” It’s a reasonable thought since she assigned me two laps yesterday for referring to Wallingford as a hellhole.
She grins again and lets out a small laugh. I find myself returning the smile in spite of my annoyance. There’s something about the break in her stone-cold facade that made my lips react involuntarily. Continuing to watch her, I realize she’s actually kind of pretty, at least when she’s not scowling. She’s athletic and wears her hair like she’s ready to go into battle at any moment. Those aren’t necessarily what most would consider attractive characteristics, but they seem to work on her.
“Thanks for censoring yourself,” she says, “but you don’t need to do it for my benefit. I’ve heard much worse around here.”
I nod, still watching her. Her skin is clear, and her cheeks are a little pink from the cold outside. Her eyes are green like mine, though much brighter. This is the first time I’ve truly looked at her. There’s nothing remarkable about her face, yet I can’t stop staring. Maybe it’s remarkable in how unremarkable it is. She doesn’t do anything to make any of her features stand out. They all just work together to give her a sort of natural prettiness.
“We’ll eat a quick lunch today, and then I’ll show you how to do the exercises,” she says. “Anything less than perfect form during athletic time will be considered slacking.”
Of course, natural beauty can easily be negated by her attitude.
“I’ve also taken the liberty of signing you up as a tutor for the first hour of personal time, seeing as you’re in all the advanced classes here. It will be good for you to share your strengths with other cadets who are struggling.”
“Tutor? You’re joking, right?” I’ve always been a good student, but I like to keep it under the radar. Plus, I’m not exactly a social butterfly. I have two close friends and a semi-serious girlfriend at home, but we knew everyone at school considered our small group antisocial loners. Or losers. I guess it depended on the day. Either way, I was okay with it.
She raises her eyebrows. “Do you think I joke?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the “p.” “I can one hundred percent believe you have never joked in your life.”
Despite it being the answer I thought she wanted to hear, she purses her lips and focuses back on her breakfast, making it clear our conversation is over.
I take a deep breath and roll my neck. Eight more months until I’m free. Well, as long as the court case goes the way it should. Otherwise, I better get used to being told what to do every minute of the day because it could be my life for many, many years.
CHAPTER 4
LOGAN
“Evans, you’re up,” Jernigan says.
I grab the bat and practically crawl to home plate. I haven’t played baseball in years. I had no plans of ever stepping on the diamond again, but apparently Wallingford tradition states that juniors and seniors must play against the freshman and sophomores the last Saturday in September. Every year. Rain or shine. Snow or sleet. In sickness and in health. Basically, no matter what. Other than death, there’s no way out of it. I tried.
“We just need a base hit,” he yells. “Don’t let us down!”
I roll my eyes and shake out my arms before drawing the bat up over my shoulder. I couldn’t care less if we win or lose. This is a stupid game I’m being forced to play for a stupid reason.
The first pitch is a bullet right over home plate. My reflexes are way too slow.
“Strike one!” the umpire yells.
The next pitch is an exact replica of the first. This time, I at least get a swing in, but it’s way too late.
“Strike two!”
“Come on, Evans!” Jernigan yells from behind me, rattling the chain-link fence.
I grit my teeth and try to ignore him. One more pitch and I can sit my ass back in the dugout.
The ball comes at me fast and straight once more. It’s like this guy is a minor league pitcher or something. I take a deep breath and swing, not expecting much.
Except the bat connects with the ball. There’s a loud crack, and I have to squint to see where it goes. Deep to left field, where the outfielder misses it.
“Run! Run!” I hear from behind me.
Right.
I take off and easily get to second base. Two players come in, which puts us up by one in the middle of the second.
The next batter strikes out, ending our turn at bat. When I return to the dugout, Paige is waiting. “Nice hit,” she says, smiling.
“Thanks,” I mumble before sitting next to Noah.
“Dude,” he says, “where’d that come from?”
“I have no idea. Lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah, right. You should sign up for the team in the spring.”
“I’ll pass.” I’m not really into organized sports anymore. Or organized anything, really.
The game continues, as well as my luck. I get another double and a single. Jernigan originally didn’t have me fielding but, after my second double, decided to put me in the outfield, where I caught a couple pop flies.