“What is in it for you?” I nod my chin at her. This seems like the beginning of a trap.
“You mean, watching you beat the fuck out of some poor guys isn’t incentive enough?” She shrugs. “And there isn’t really anything in it for me. Plus, I already told Breaker I’d be there.”
Fucking Breaker.
“I think you’re warming up to me, Palmer Weston.” I wag my finger at her, slinking away before she can change her mind.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself!” she shouts.
The amusement in her voice has my stomach flipping around like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy with his first crush. Fuck me. I may need to find some way to remind myself of the guy I was before Palmer.
“Can’t wait to see your cute ass up in those stands!” I yell, catching everyone’s attention.
A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “Still think you’re an untrustworthy asshole.” She turns her back and heads inside the dorms, where I know she’s safe.
“But you’re still thinking of me. That’s all I need to know.” Even though she can’t hear my quiet murmur, saying it makes me feel better.
I head to the field, a bit of relief settling in to our new normal.
Football will be a good distraction. On the field, everything else falls into place and my mind clears. It’s just me, my quarterback, and the ball. This sport is effortless. Green grass. Leather ball. An intense current running through the entire team, preparing for war.
This is our last game as a team. Seniors will walk onto the field tonight, some of us carrying heavier baggage than others, but under those bright lights, none of it matters. We are a team.
War is something I’m ready for.
Speaking of . . .
“You’re late again.” Byron is waiting on the cement path and follows me down the corridor that leads to our locker room.
“You keeping tabs on me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. We’ve tiptoed around each other for the last month. Our distance is starting to be our normal.
“It’s about time we have this conversation.” Byron bashfully tucks his hands into his pockets.
“It’s all done and over with,” I brush him off.
“You and I both know that isn’t true.” He grabs my arm, and I jerk away from his touch. “Come on, man.”
“I have a game to play. I’m trying to let things get back to normal. Everyone else seems to be, so why can’t you?”
“Because”— he slams his hands against the cement wall— “this shit isn’t done.”
“You made sure it was done the moment you sliced that knife into Palmer’s leg. The moment you decided your shit was far more important than the rest of ours, you made the decision for us.”
“You know this isn’t done, not as long as—”
I cut him off. “She’s dead, Byron. No amount of searching for her killer will make that any less true,” I sigh, an influx of sadness settling into my chest.
“At the time, I did what I thought I had to do.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I tap my temple, slamming my finger into the hard flesh. “You’re delusional if you actually think it had to go that far. It’s about time you start moving on. The rest of us are.”
“Real cute coming from the boy who held a knife to Palmer’s throat,” he goads. “What, didn’t think I’d notice the marks on her neck? We aren’t so different, so stop acting holier than thou.”
My heartbeat whooshes in my ears. Overcome by anger, I clench my hands at my sides, holding myself back from lunging at him.
“All this over a stupid girl,” he hisses.
Ever hear the expression ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’? Consider myself broken.
I lunge forward, my fist connecting with Byron’s cheek. The bone is harsh to my knuckles. He stumbles backwards, losing his footing and hitting the cement floor. He’s not much of a fighter unless he’s certain he can win. When he stands, I roll my shoulders and turn my back on him. Nothing else needs to be said. He knows what he’s done.
In the locker room, I grab a paper towel and dry the blood from the split knuckle and toss the rag in the trash.
“You ready for this tonight?” Coach asks, walking through the locker room on the way to his office.
“I’m not too worried.” I spin, pinning Dillon to his locker with a glare. “What about you, Johnson? You think you’re ready?”
“You two will need to work together tonight.” Coach pats me on the back, then hides behind his office doors.
Dillon Johnson is a fucking asshole. That much I’m certain of. We’ll work together in the beginning, but if at any point we’re ahead enough, I’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him. Breaker has mentioned Johnson’s been eyeing Palmer lately. I haven’t noticed because my eyes are always on her.
“Let’s call a truce, Hawthorne,” he says as I’m pulling on my pads.
I eye his offered hand, refusing to give him my own. “Let’s get through this game.”
Keeping my distance in this locker room is damn near impossible, but I manage. With my headphones on, I sit on the bench, focusing on the one thing I can control. This game. I get to decide how hard I push myself, how fast I’ll run, and how tight I’ll hold onto the ball. I control the score. The only thing standing between us and a win is me.
Stepping out onto the field is a rite of passage at a home game. Cheerleaders line the track. A banner waits for us to barrel through, and smoke and fireworks fill the sky. It’s a sight to see. Glass Heart Academy has a reputation for theatrics. We live for this shit. It’s in our blood.
With my team, I run out onto the field, stopping when we hit the sidelines. I turn towards the crowd, scanning the student section that’s buzzing like a livewire tonight. I spot Dixon and Breaker instantly. Girls surround them, and the boys give them their breathing room, right in the middle of the crowd.
I hold out my hands, asking Breaker a question he immediately responds to with a quick point. Palmer is walking up the steps, the sea of students parting for her, much to their dismay. She sits down in front of Breaker and leans back into him to whisper something.
He grins, eyeing me the whole time. I mouth fucking asshole, which he clearly reads. An entertained middle finger is waved at me. Palmer circles back around, skimming the sidelines. Our eyes lock, and she visibly sighs, offering me a bothered wave.
She needs me to know she’s here, but not happy about it. Or that’s at least what she needs to tell herself as she sits in the stands. She’ll pretend as if she isn’t watching me stretching, and she’ll turn away when she catches herself searching for my number among the sea of jerseys.
Dillon plays a strong first half, making the right choice by throwing long passes to me deep down the field. There’s a reason why we win. I’m running the ball into the end zone as the time runs out on the scoreboard, signaling the end of the first half.
I jog towards the stands. The guys high-five me, and the girls gaze at me as if I’m something. To them, I am, but their approval isn’t something I chase.
“Where is she?” I yell to Breaker, checking around the stands for any sign of her.