He whispers to Will, who’s avoiding my cold, lethal glare.
In the back of my head, I hear Will Rochester saying, fuck you, Sulli, from months ago, and I almost see red.
“Thatcher to Banks, don’t engage.” My brother is on comms and in my ear. “Stand down.”
I tear my glare off them.
Get her bracelet.
In and out.
“Whoa.” A nearby voice triggers my focus. My head jerks to my ten o’clock.
Seated next to the stairs, a college-aged girl with a blonde high-bun is pointing her phone at me. She’s recording or snapping photos. “Which one are you?”
Before I became famous, I’d answer honestly. Nicely, actually.
But my patience has short-circuited. It’s not her fault. Not really.
“The tall one,” I say.
Her nose crinkles. “No, I mean, are you Thatcher Moretti or Banks Moretti?”
My stomach churns. Ignore. But hell, I don’t want anything I do to come back to my brother. “Banks,” I tell her.
She gasps. “Are you nervous about Sullivan Meadows swimming today?”
I used to think it was funny how fans use their full names. Sullivan Meadows. Maximoff Hale. Jane Cobalt. Christ, no one even calls her Jane Moretti.
Marriage.
I shove the word away fast, my heartbeat spiking.
My narrowed gaze meets her phone’s camera. I didn’t sign up for some random girl’s insta-story. So I rotate my body and close off to the girl. Muscles stiff. Come on. One stair up.
Another.
I put more and more distance between her and me. But the further I climb, the more eyes pin to me. The stares slide a cold chill down my spine.
Six-seven.
Can’t hide.
“Hey.” A familiar, sharp-edged voice cuts into the crowd. “Can you guys make some room? Jesus, this isn’t a midnight Avengers release. We all don’t need to be dead-stopping on the staircase.”
Loren Hale.
“Fucking move,” Ryke Meadows adds.
Like the crowd has been zapped by an electric current, everyone picks up their pace. Ryke and Loren are standing at the edge of their row. Both glare at the crowds, not giving a shit what it means for their public image.
I wear a slight smile. Feeling a kinship on that front. Akara would be the first to say that it’s been freeing. Having no more fucks to give.
Once I’m close enough, Ryke nods down to me. “You alright, Banks?”
“Yes, sir.” I take a tight breath. Hating that I said sir after he went at me for the whole yes, sir thing a while back. But this doesn’t seem to bother him.
He just reminds me, “You don’t need to call me sir.”
“Yeah.” I nod to him again. “You have Sulli’s brace—”
Before I finish, he’s cursing and reaching into his pocket. “I fucking forgot. Fucking fuck.”
Lo laughs. “Anymore fucks and they’ll be kicking us out. There are children here.”
Ryke growls into a groan, “I’m trying.”
Families do pack the stands, but I’ve tried not to notice.
What kind of father will I be?
There it is.
That question again.
It freezes me over for a second. My dad bombed hard at fatherhood. He left my mom, my brother, and me without a second thought. When shit hit the fan and he lost one son, he decided to lose us all. I can’t—for a moment—believe I have that in me. To leave my kid. To abandon them.
But I am my father’s son.
I have his DNA.
I have some parts of him that I don’t even understand. All my life it’d been so easy to not lay roots. And if I don’t ground myself to anything, then I can’t be accused of abandoning it. I’m terrified of being like him.
Of having some inherited thing that I can’t excise away.
And part of me thinks maybe all this time—not jumping into a serious relationship—that was my dad in me all along. He never remarried after my mom, and as far as I know, he’s never had anything serious since.
I’m different now, I assure myself.
I have Sulli.
I have Akara.
I’m different than him.
Stay frosty.
I blink back those thoughts. Coming to focus on the space around me. I’m stuck in the middle of the staircase waiting for Ryke to find Sulli’s bracelet.
“Fuck, shit, fuck.” He curses under his breath, emptying out every pocket in his jeans.
Loren stares at his brother like he’s out of his mind. “Children,” Loren whisper-hisses in a reminder. “Sensitive ears. Sensitive souls. Those little things.”
I’m gonna have one of those little things.
I rake a tensed hand across my unshaven jaw. Good grief, Ryke has no clue his daughter is pregnant. And I’m standing in front of my girlfriend’s dad cradling this massive secret.
“Sorry, Banks.” He eyes me for a split-second while he keeps digging in his ass pockets.
I knocked up your daughter, Ryke.
Not sure though. Could be Akara’s since we probably both fucked her that night. Surprise.
You’re gonna be a grandpa.
I might be brazen enough to say shit I shouldn’t say to Ryke, but no way am I telling him that. I’d never announce Sulli’s pregnancy without Sulli. That’s a shitbag move. And I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a shitbag.
I watch his search continue. “No problem.”
A bracelet is the least of our fuckin’ worries. The throbbing in my temple increases, and I squint from the bright fluorescent lights. Fuck. I reach into my pocket and pull out some pain meds. Quickly, I pop a couple. No water, but I make do.
“Fucking A,” Ryke curses.
“Bro,” Lo warns.
“I know. I know,” Ryke growls at Lo and then looks to me. “I don’t think I have it.” As soon as he says those words, guilt and worry stretches across his face. “I must’ve left it in my jacket back at the hotel.”
“Can we call someone to pick it up?” Lo asks him, trying to problem solve for his brother.
I catch movement at the pool. “I don’t think there’s time.”
Swimmers emerge from the ready room. Crowds burst into applause, excited for the heats to start. Sulli’s sister and cousins spring up, cheering and waving pompoms and signs. Janie whistles loudly with her Aunt Daisy.
Noises echo throughout the stadium.
It pricks my ears. I’m barely blinking.
Canvassing the audience with a narrowed gaze until I land back on the pool.
Swimmers swing their arms back and forth and slowly approach the starting blocks. Everyone loitering on the stairs are rushing to their seats.
Everyone but me.
I want back down to the pool.
Near the ready room exit, I spot Akara standing stoically at a colorful wall—blues, pinks, and yellows blend together and Los Angeles Olympics with the year are printed in big white letters behind him. Press bleachers are only a few meters to his three o’clock, and large lenses are aimed at the water and ten lanes. But only eight swimmers will fill the lanes.
Officials cup their hands behind their backs and are scattered around the pool, tasked to judge the competitors.
I subconsciously touch my lanyard and badge that says security.
The fact that I can watch my girlfriend compete from the poolside is a blessing and a gift only granted to her closest bodyguards. And I’m not trying to completely waste this perk tonight.