2 HARVARD
Hang back, Captain, would you?” Coach Williams said. “I want a word.”
That was Harvard’s first sign something was very wrong.
When Coach was in a good mood, she’d yell, “Yo, Harvard!” and maybe toss something at his head. Harvard would always catch it and grin. Sure, she was stern when it came to discipline, but otherwise she was pretty chill.
Seeing Coach Williams this serious made Harvard want to run away.
Harvard was captain, though, so he couldn’t do that. Instead he braced himself and waited for whatever came next. He usually liked it in the coach’s office, where they would sit at her big, battered desk and sketch plans for the team’s future.
Today Assistant Coach Lewis was sticking around, too, wisps of ruddy brown hair escaping from her ponytail. She shot Harvard a covertly sympathetic glance over her glasses, then straightened up. She never stayed behind for captain-to-coach meetings. If Coach Williams needed backup, that was even more proof this was bad.
Coach Williams gestured to the chair across from her. Harvard sat and Coach Williams sighed.
“This isn’t about fencing,” said Coach. “Well, only tangentially. It’s about a member of the team, and I think you know who.”
Coach paused, leaving a space for Harvard to fill. Harvard wished he didn’t know who Coach meant. He had a sudden desperate urge to hear Eugene was setting fires in the gym.
Instead he turned away, to the window, and said to the glass rather than his coach: “Aiden.”
Even saying his best friend’s name sent a strange, shuddering pang through Harvard. It was like a story Harvard had read as a child about a broken magic mirror. The shards had flown in all directions and hit people—some in the eye, some in the heart—and the small, cold, jagged pieces had stayed in them and twisted. Those who’d been hit had to learn to live with those sharp, cold reminders that something magic had been broken and couldn’t be fixed.
“The man himself,” said Coach. “Have you seen him lately? Because I haven’t since he no longer comes to matches, to practice, or, so I’m told, to class. He didn’t even come to this meeting. Eugene couldn’t find him.”
Harvard crossed his arms and tilted back in his chair. If he’d been Aiden, that would’ve been a cool move of lazy insouciance.
Since he was Harvard, he felt vaguely unbalanced and almost immediately restored the chair to its rightfully steady position on all four legs.
“Aiden says he’s living his best life.”
“He’s sneaking out to meet guys. And I say ‘sneaking out,’ but it seems like he wants to get caught, or at least doesn’t care if he’s caught. He’s had detention every day for a week,” said Coach. “At least he gets some sleep in there. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s living his best life. Do you have any idea what’s going on with him?”
“I…,” said Harvard. “Not exactly.”
He swallowed, fidgeted, and bit his lip. He didn’t do well with guilt. When he was younger, and he was home alone and broke something, he waited on the porch so he could run to his mom and confess as soon as possible.
He’d never kept a guilty secret. Not until now.
“Do you want me to read out all the Kings Row rules Aiden has broken this week?” Coach Williams gestured. “Lewis has a list.”
“I do have a list,” the assistant coach agreed sadly. “It’s extensive.”
Harvard shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it.
“Is it my fault?” wondered Coach Williams aloud. “Am I a bad role model?”
“You’re doing great, Sally,” the assistant coach contributed supportively. “You’re the best role model!”
Coach drummed her fingers meditatively on the surface of the desk. “I certainly haven’t dated the entire state of Connecticut, as seems to be Aiden’s dream.”
“You totally could, Sally.” The assistant coach continued to validate Coach Williams. “Um. Anyone could tell you that! Anyone would say the same thing.”
Coach Williams was frowning, dark eyes narrowed as she focused on the problem of Aiden. The assistant coach sighed and pushed her glasses up her nose. Harvard’s stomach roiled, sick with guilt.
What he couldn’t tell Coach was that Aiden’s behavior was all Harvard’s fault. Harvard was a fool about love who’d messed up the very few dates he’d ever gone on. It had been Harvard’s idea to practice dating with his best friend, and it was Harvard who continued being a spectacular idiot and fell in love with his best friend over the course of three days. Brilliant, beautiful Aiden Kane, who wanted to date the entire state of Connecticut.
Harvard had tried to make things right. He’d reassured Aiden that he only wanted to be friends, that their friendship was the most important thing. He’d made sure Aiden knew he was free to do whatever he wanted.
Only it seemed now that what Aiden wanted was to go absolutely wild. Harvard couldn’t figure out if the recent bad behavior was Aiden making clear that he couldn’t be tied down, or—and this suspicion made Harvard feel worse than anything else as he lay alone in their room through the long, cold nights—if Aiden had simply been bored out of his mind for the handful of days they’d pretended to date, and was seizing his chance to have fun again.
“We had an emergency meeting about Aiden,” said Coach Williams. “The principal called Aiden’s father. You know Aiden’s father.”
Sadly, Harvard did. He thought it was a pity that Aiden knew Aiden’s father.
“His father is opposed to any discipline that would stay on Aiden’s record, like suspensions,” Coach Williams went on. “He said he would rather withdraw Aiden from school. Of course, it won’t come to that, but I don’t even want to think about it. Do you understand, Harvard? You have to get Aiden to calm down.”
Harvard could barely speak, but he managed in a low voice: “Yeah.”
He understood.
Coach Williams ran a hand through her springy Afro, dark-and-silver curls catching on her fingers like rings. “I hate to put this on you, kid. But I’ve tried sitting him down myself, and I just got a cat-eyed stare and too-cool-for-school jokes. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”
Harvard had always been Aiden’s best friend. Since they were little.
“I’ll do my best,” promised Harvard.
He always really tried. He couldn’t let these wild new feelings for Aiden—feelings that were his problem alone—get in the way of being a good captain or a good friend.
He excused himself from the coach’s office and made his way back to the dormitory. His own room was empty, with no sign of his roommate. Harvard wasn’t surprised. Aiden hadn’t slept there in days. He and Aiden, at the start of the year, had pushed their beds together so they could talk and watch movies more comfortably. The only occupant of Aiden’s side of the bed was Aiden’s teddy bear, Harvard Paw. Harvard had given him that bear in preschool, and Aiden had always fussed over it and treasured it. Until now. The teddy bear was flung carelessly to one side, abandoned. Much like the room. Much like Harvard himself.